


For Better or Worse, We're Changing

by halcyon1993



Series: Lone Wolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Angst, Asshole Jackson, Asshole Scott, BAMF Stiles, Bad Parenting, Beta Scott McCall, Body Worship, Bullying, Child Abuse, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Curses, Derek is a Good Alpha, Derek is a Softie, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Derek, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Hunter Training, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Relationship(s), Pet Names, Potions, Protective Derek, Rape Recovery, Revenge, Season/Series 02, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stilinski Family Feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Werewolf Allison Argent, Werewolf Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 101,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon1993/pseuds/halcyon1993
Summary: With Peter and Kate dead, Derek and Stiles are finally given the chance to figure out who they are to each other. Theirs isn't the only relationship that continues to change for the better, but as Derek settles into his new role as the Hale Pack alpha and Stiles seeks to grow stronger, a new player comes to town with their sights set on revenge.





	1. He Left One Hell of a Mess

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of season 2, with things playing out how I think they should have. It obviously follows on from [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6616861/chapters/15140524), so check that out first if you want everything to make sense here. This deviates a bit more from canon than Part 1 did—there will be no kanima adventures here! I hope you enjoy how I've changed things, and the way in which I continue to develop the Sterek relationship, and the pack relationship as a whole.
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta, [RoamingJaguar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingjaguar/pseuds/roamingjaguar), for helping all that you do.

_\- Saturday, February 5th, 2011 -_

It takes Stiles a long time to remember that he and Derek are not alone in the preserve.

Derek kissing him is something he never would've expected, and while it remains chaste, just lips pressed against lips, he thinks it's perfect all the same. A large hand cups the side of his face, and he leans into it easily, not worried about the small pinpricks of Derek's claws or the wetness that smears onto his skin, staining it red with Peter's blood.

Eventually, Derek pulls back and rests their foreheads together, red eyes boring into Stiles', and Stiles can't help the breathless, "Wow..." that escapes him. This gets him a quiet chuckle, and then Derek just stares at him with a look of possessiveness that sends shivers down his spine. He doesn't know how long the two of them stand there in their own world, but it must be a decent amount of time because, when he realises that he can feel eyes on the back of his head, Chris Argent is wide awake again and on his feet, observing the two of them with an odd expression on his face. Scott just looks disgusted, but Stiles is flying so high that he couldn't give any less of a fuck about what his ex-friend thinks of the new development in his and Derek's relationship.

Focusing his attention back on the new alpha, Stiles watches with fascination as the shift recedes and his red eyes revert to their natural hazel, a colour he has come to adore. He wouldn't actually admit that out loud, not quite yet, so he just stays quiet and smiles softly, his heart skipping a beat when the smile is bashfully returned.

"As much as I hate to break this up, we really need to figure out what we're going to do about all of this mess," Chris Argent interrupts, taking his hunting rifle back from Stiles. "Peter killed a lot of people, some of whom were good friends of mine, so we have to decide what we're going to tell everybody. We all need to be on the same page if we're going to come out of this without too much hassle."

"That's a good point..." Stiles admits, taking a couple of steps away from Peter's body. The way Derek moves with him, sticking close by, doesn't go unnoticed, but he chooses not to comment on it.

"Anyone got any ideas?" Derek asks.

"No," Scott scoffs from where he leans against a tree.

Stiles hears Derek growl threateningly at the beta. Before things can get out of control, he puts a hand on the alpha's arm and is surprised when Derek immediately calms, his entire body relaxing and his face smoothing out to something more neutral instead of aggressive. Chris watches this interaction with interest, like he knows something or is at least beginning to figure something out. Stiles meets the hunter's eyes uneasily before swallowing and speaking up.

"I think we should just tell the cops the truth," he suggests, elaborating when he sees how dubiously everyone looks at him. "There's no way all these people can go missing without the authorities asking questions. We should tell them exactly what happened—just, y'know, leaving out the werewolf parts. Kate was a lunatic who killed Peter's family, Peter also went crazy with grief and killed everyone in a twisted show of revenge, and we all just got caught in the crossfire. That will also clear Derek's name of the attack at the school that _somebody_ blamed him for." He glances pointedly at Scott.

"What was I _supposed_ to say?" Scott defends, stepping away from the tree to get up in Stiles' face. He is instantly cowed by another growl and a flash of newly red eyes, but still he stubbornly tries to excuse his earlier actions. "I didn't know who the alpha was back then, and I thought Derek was dead, so..."

"So he was an easy scapegoat," Stiles finishes. "That was stupid."

"Why? They believed me."

"You could've just said you didn't see who attacked us!" Stiles snaps, fed up and unwilling to deal any longer with Scott's surfeit of bullheadedness. "Instead, you sent the cops after the one person who was actually trying to help us stop the alpha—no offence, Mr. Argent, but your sister was crazy, so I couldn't trust you either. That made things a hell of a lot more difficult, so good job! Though I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less from you. You've never thought your actions through properly."

Scott scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you can't figure it out, I'm not explaining it to you."

"But—"

"While you two sort out your _issues_ ," Chris interjects, cutting off Scott's response, "I'm going to go make sure my daughter is alright. Feel free to help me whenever you're done with all your meaningless adolescent drama."

This reminds Stiles and Scott of the dire situation in which they are currently knee-deep, and with a roll of his eyes Chris walks away, mumbling exasperatedly to himself. Scott glowers one last time in Stiles' direction, getting a raised eyebrow in return, before hurrying to assist the hunter with the youngest Argent. Derek and Stiles are left by themselves in the clearing. No more words are exchanged for a while, not until Derek takes a few steps away from Stiles, his eyes intently focused on the lifeless body of his uncle.

The deep frown on his face fills Stiles with concern. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"I'm just wondering about Allison," Derek reveals.

"She'll be a werewolf now, right, because Peter bit her?"

Nodding, Derek tears his eyes away from his uncle's corpse and looks instead to the night sky. "Yeah, she'll turn soon. That's going to make things complicated, especially now that I'm the alpha," he says, sighing. "I'm going to have to start training her, and her parents'll probably want to have some say in that."

"Sounds fun."

Derek hums thoughtfully, frown getting somehow deeper.

Stiles, not liking the sombre mood, tries for some levity. "Well, I can kick their asses for you if they cause you too much trouble," he jokes, waggling his eyebrows. Derek looks at him briefly before averting his eyes again, and without saying another word he walks off, following in Chris' and Scott's footsteps to the Hale house. Stiles stares after him, wondering how they went from the kiss to him getting the cold shoulder.

* * *

Later that night, Stiles sits anxiously in the sheriff's office, feeling like he's about to be executed by firing squad. He'd regrouped with the others in front of the Hale house and ironed out what they all hoped would be a foolproof lie. Chris tended to Allison as much as he could, fastening a torn piece of Scott's shirt over the bite on her shoulder in an effort to staunch the bleeding. Scott hovered close to the pair, while Derek remained standoffish and sat far from Stiles on the porch steps. Stiles had fretted about this before fulfilling his role in their plan and dialling 911, recalling all the emotions he'd felt when he saw Kate hold her shotgun up to Derek's face in order to sound believably worked up.

The cops were quick to show, with an ambulance in tow to take care of any urgent injuries and to whisk a still-unconscious Allison straight to the hospital to get treatment. Chris insisted on going with her and was escorted by a deputy, who would get his statement while his daughter was seen to. Derek, still the main suspect in the attack at the school and, by extension, all the murders, was almost taken away in handcuffs before Stiles had intervened, begging Deputy Parrish to listen to him as he shifted all the blame to where it belonged. Parrish had looked unsure but put his trust in Stiles and forwent the handcuffs, though he still regarded the other man with suspicious eyes.

Two deputies were sent off to locate Peter's body, following Stiles' directions, while others stayed in and around the house to inspect the bodies of Kate and the nameless hunters she'd enlisted to help her. Stiles, Derek and Scott were piled into the back of a cruiser and driven down to the station, an awkward drive, but it wasn't long before they reached their destination and were each sequestered away in their own rooms.

Derek wouldn't look at Stiles.

Now, Stiles waits for Deputy Parrish to get back with his water—when that happens, the questioning will begin. His dad sits in a chair next to him and tries to be reassuring, but he fails spectacularly because he just doesn't know how to connect with his son anymore.

The alcohol on his breath doesn't help.

"Alright, here we go!" Parrish says with feigned cheer as he reenters the room, trying to set Stiles at ease. He takes the seat the sheriff vacates for him and hands the cup of water he'd retrieved to Stiles, who sips it gratefully with his right leg bouncing away. Stiles' dad shuts the door to give them more privacy, then moves to stand behind his son, unable to do more to comfort than simply offer his presence. Parrish flips open his notebook when he is given the go-ahead. "We'll get through this as quickly as we can, alright? To make things easier, why don't you start by taking us through the events that led up to tonight, and we'll move on to tackle the more difficult stuff after all that's out of the way."

"Take as long as you need," the sheriff adds.

Stiles takes another sip of water before answering.

"OK, well..." Gradually, he relays everything that has happened since Winter break ended, from running into Derek in the preserve and the two of them becoming friends, to Derek saving him from the real culprit of the attack at the school, to discovering that Kate Argent was responsible for the Hale house fire. This is met with understandable shock.

"Those are some serious accusations, son..." the sheriff cautions.

"Are you sure?" Parrish asks, scribbling away.

"Yes. She seduced Derek, used him to get information on his family, and then tried to kill them all," Stiles details ardently. "I don't know why, though. Maybe she was after their money, or maybe she was just bat-shit insane. I'm going with insanity, based on the impressions I got whenever I ran into her..."

Stiles goes on to tell his dad and Parrish about the night he and Derek had discovered that Peter was responsible for all the murders, getting revenge on the people who'd taken part in burning down his life and putting him in a coma for years. With a glance back over his shoulder, he notes the expression on his dad's face, like he's wondering why Stiles didn't just come to him with all of this as it was happening. He doesn't have the heart to tell him he didn't trust him with it, so he moves on:

"Kate kidnapped Derek because, like I said, she was insane and wanted one last romp with him or something. Then, tonight, Peter attacked Lydia and made me go with him, or else he would kill her, too. I had no choice, and then together we tracked where Kate was keeping Derek..." Memories of what had taken place in the parking structure flash before his eyes, but he pushes through the spike of adrenaline that makes him tense up, not wanting to reveal just yet what he was almost forced to endure at Peter's hands. "Then we went to the Hale house, and I went to get Derek from Kate while Peter stood guard to make sure no one interfered. The fighting had already started when we got back outside."

Stiles knows the most difficult part is coming up, and he drinks the rest of his water slowly to delay it. If Parrish or his dad notice this tactic, he's grateful that neither says anything about it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tosses the paper cup in the rubbish bin in the corner of the room and readies himself to tell the part of his story that will be toughest to get through.

Sweat starts to bead on his forehead.

"Then Kate showed up again. She had a shotgun and was going to kill Derek," he whispers, transfixed by his hands in his lap, almost as if he can see Kate's blood coating his palms. "Derek had already saved my life once by that point, and I guess it was time for me to return the favour, so I yelled. She turned toward me in surprise and her shotgun knocked me off-balance. Then..." He makes a stabbing motion with his right hand and goes quiet, allowing Parrish and the sheriff to absorb the meaning of his words. The panic he'd felt right after it happened returns and he barely holds it back, releasing a long breath and counting to ten in his head in an effort to keep himself calm.

"You...you're the one who killed her?" the sheriff asks disbelievingly.

Stiles nods. "And I don't regret it."

"Why?"

Turning in his chair, Stiles peers appraisingly up at his dad, trying to decipher the strange look on his face. He thinks he can detect traces of horror, fear and distrust, like he has suddenly been revealed to the man as a stranger, no longer the son he thought he knew. Stiles feels irritation and latches onto it instead of succumbing to some other emotion. Irritation is an easier and much safer thing to feel.

"I don't regret it because it was a choice between Derek, a good guy who had a bunch of awful shit happen to him that he didn't deserve, or Kate, the person who _did_ most of that awful shit and revelled in it," he explains defensively. "As much as I wish I didn't have someone's blood on my hands now, it was an easy choice, one I'd make again in a heartbeat. Now, if you're done looking at me like you think I'm a sociopath, can I go? It's been a long night and I'd like to sleep for about a year..."

The sheriff looks briefly ashamed before his face shutters, becoming unreadable. With a glance at Parrish, he nods. "Yes, I suppose that's all we need for now. I'll take you home."

With a snort, Stiles stands and steps around his father. "Don't bother," he sneers.

"Stiles—"

"I'd rather walk." He heads for the door and rips it open none too gently. The sheriff calls his name again, more urgently, no doubt wanting him to come back, but he doesn't listen and just carries on his way. He has to get out before everything stirred up by his recounting consumes him, not wanting to have his rapidly approaching breakdown somewhere this public. All eyes turn to him when he gets out into the bullpen, like he is the most fascinating thing anyone has seen all night. He stands there for a few seconds before storming outside.

The cold night welcomes him.

In the parking lot, he finds Melissa McCall leaning against her car, a kind but uncertain smile forming on her face when she sees him emerge from the station. She beckons him over. He goes somewhat morosely, not missing the glint of Scott's eyes in the passenger seat as they catch in the light of the street lamp overhead. As soon as Stiles gets within touching distance, Melissa pulls him into a hug, which he returns automatically.

"I'm so glad you're OK," she whispers in his ear, rubbing a hand up and down his back to soothe away the small tremors that rack his body, likely mistaking his anger at his dad for another emotion, one of the ones that are still searching for a way to the surface. Scott glares from the car, unimpressed with his mother's display of affection for someone he now dislikes so vehemently, and in return Stiles regards him coolly over Melissa's shoulder until she ends her motherly embrace, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms so that she can get a better look at him. "When I heard what happened, I just couldn't believe it! To think the person responsible for all those murders was right under our noses the whole time. And you came by the hospital while it was all going on and I didn't realise that anything was wrong..."

There's a distinct note of guilt in her voice.

"Don't feel too bad," Stiles comforts. "I didn't want you to know."

"I get that, but still..."

"Seriously, it's fine. _I'm_ fine, I promise."

Melissa frowns, still unsure as she bites her lip. She snaps herself out of her thoughts after several seconds of awkward silence, releasing him and gesturing to her car. "Do you need a ride back to your house, sweetheart? It's the least I can do, and I'd be more than happy to drop you off."

"That'd be great, thanks," Stiles accepts. If it will get him home more swiftly, he can deal with Scott's petulance. He gets into the backseat and straps himself in, trying his best to engage in as much normal small talk with Melissa as he can in order to keep up the pretence that he's alright. It isn't easy, but luckily any slip he makes is attributed to shaken nerves instead of anything more serious. Scott remains obstinately silent during the entire drive, and Stiles catches Melissa shooting both of them confused glances whenever she looks away from the road at red lights and stop signs. Scott is clearly still too much of a coward to tell his mother what he has been up to lately.

"Here we are," Melissa announces as she pulls to a stop on Stiles' street.

"Thanks," Stiles says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"You going to be OK on your own?"

Nodding, Stiles thanks Melissa again before slamming the door, walking up the front path, and letting himself into his house. He waves at her as she drives off, then shuts and locks the front door and, no longer having to uphold his facade, allows his whole body to slump against it. The cool wood soothes the heat of his forehead, so he stays there for several minutes until the silence becomes too much.

The house is completely dark, his dad still down at the station, and even though he's completely alone he feels somehow exposed, like numerous sets of eyes are upon him.

His skin crawls.

Retreating upstairs to his bedroom is a frustrating and laborious task, weariness making it feel like his bones have at least quadrupled in density. While getting straight into bed sounds like the most wonderful thing, there's no way Stiles is climbing beneath the covers until he's washed the whole horrible night from every pore of his body. He lets out a humourless laugh, wishing that there was a way he could do the same thing for his mind. The memories will always be there, though, simmering and threatening to boil over at any moment. All he can do is focus as much as he can on whatever menial task he gives himself, starting with grabbing a towel and stepping beneath the spray of the shower.

He doesn't wait for the water to heat up and gasps as he is assaulted by thousands of tiny icicles, which wash down over the body that just a few hours ago had felt youthful and full of energy. The night seems to have aged him prematurely—when he looks down at himself he honestly expects to be met with wrinkles and sagging flesh, but of course he just sees smooth skin, skin that seems alien to him in that moment. Reaching for his shower gel, he clumsily squirts some onto his palm, not caring when some of it spills and falls wasted to the shower basin, and begins soaping himself up. He scrubs aggressively at all the dirt, not stopping when he's clean because he swears he can still see the evidence of Peter's impure touches clear as day. His skin is soon red from more than the too-hot water, and still he can feel him.

He will _always_ feel him.

The shower takes twice as long as it normally would, and by the time the last trace of lather has eddied down the drain, the water has run cold again. Stiles is shivering when he switches it off and steps from the stall, automatically extending his hand to grab the fuzzy towel he'd hung up on the wall right outside.

Wrapping it around his waist, he steps up to the sink and leans his hands on the rim, staring blankly at the fogged-up mirror on the wall above. The condensation won't stay for long, and he has to look at himself eventually, so he speeds up time and wipes his hand across the smooth surface to restore its purpose, his exhausted reflection staring back at him. Again there's a disconnect—inside is someone different, someone who no longer matches what's on the surface. He looks into his own eyes and their whiskey colour seems dimmed, devoid of their usual spark of mischief or excitement or any other positive emotion.

On his right cheek is a small abrasion. He touches it gently with his finger and remembers how his face scraped against the ground of the parking structure as Peter pinned him down. Turning, he looks back over his shoulder and notes the five small cuts between his shoulder blades, where Peter's hand had been, claws piercing pale skin and causing blood to bead up and stain the dress shirt Lydia had generously bought him. The small wounds twinge every time he moves.

And so does his ass.

It all serves to remind him of what was almost taken from him, his virginity, the last vestige of his innocence, and suddenly he can't bear to look at the stranger in the mirror any longer. If he does, he might just break down in tears when all he wants is to forget. He flies to his bedroom and pulls on the first items of clothing he finds in his dresser, anything to get covered up. After dressing in a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt that used to belong to his dad, Stiles sits down on his bed—tentatively, so as to not exacerbate any of his wounds—and wishes that someone was there to make everything better.

He doesn't think there's anyone he could turn to. Not his mother, who lies in a box in the ground. Not his dad, who used to comfort him whenever he had a nightmare but is now so distant. Not Scott, who betrayed him and left him behind. Not Melissa, who remains ignorant to all of this. Not Derek. _Definitely_ not Derek...

Their last interaction plays in his mind, and the confusion he'd felt at Derek kissing him one second and refusing to even look at him the next is back, the last straw.

He feels like crying, so he does.

Slumping over onto his side, Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in the soft material of his sweatpants as the first sob tears its way out of his throat. Everything he has been holding back all night pours out of him in a seemingly endless stream, soaking through his sweats and leaving his eyes red and puffy. He doesn't know how long he lies there, lost to the world, but by the time his cries have quieted and the tears have stopped flowing, the sun is faintly visible behind his closed curtains.

He doesn't get up to turn off his light. He's too tired.

And as he closes his eyes, one last tear slides down his cheek.


	2. You Keep Choosing Your Vices Over Me

_\- Sunday, February 6th, 2011 -_

It's close to midday when Stiles jerks awake from an uneasy sleep. He groans and turns over onto his back, flinging an arm across eyes that feel disgustingly crusty and puffy from his outpouring of emotion a few hours ago. The subject of his dream is still there behind his eyelids, a little hazy but discernible nevertheless:

The memory of what happened in the parking structure.

After his trousers and underwear were ripped from him, though, the dream diverged from truth into something even worse. There was no wolfsbane to save him, and when he'd reached for the bag Lydia gave him, he got a handful of long blonde hair instead. Kate's corpse was on the ground in front of him, knife plunged deep into her right eye, and a pool of blood got larger and larger beneath her, creeping closer. The last thing he recalls, the thing that woke him up, was the shock of Peter entering him with one brutal snap of his hips. He can still feel the phantom pain of it like it was real, like he was being torn in two, and he has to take a series of deep breaths to keep calm and remind himself that it was all a dream, just a terrible nightmare.

After his heart has slowed back to its resting rate, he reaches blindly for his phone, a frown forming on his face when he finds nothing but the smooth wood of his nightstand. Turning his head, it's only when he sees the empty space that he remembers leaving his phone in the preserve in order to lure a hunter away from the Hale house. It's probably evidence now, so the chances of him getting it back any time soon are slim.

He ruminates about what will happen next, how many things in his life will be forever changed by the events of last night. His involvement in Kate's death will hopefully be kept to a need-to-know basis. He doesn't even want to think about how everyone would perceive him if they were to find out. Things like this always have a way of being twisted into fiction far worse than the already-horrible truth, and Stiles is certain that the fact of the killing being in the defence of someone else will be left out of some people's accounts. How his dad reacted to the truth doesn't instil in him much confidence that he could come out the other side without his already shoddy reputation being tarnished even further.

With another groan he sits up, a hand pressed to his forehead, and jumps when he finds that he isn't alone. Derek sits in Stiles' desk chair, cleaned up and seeming rested. His beard is neatly trimmed, his hair washed, and on his body is a clean set of clothes—a navy-blue Henley, the V-neck providing a teasing glimpse of his unshaven chest; a pair of black jeans that hug the considerable muscles of his thighs; and a brand-new leather jacket, which is slung over the back of the chair. It's a very handsome ensemble, one Stiles would be more appreciative of if the thought of anything vaguely sexual didn't make his stomach churn unpleasantly.

"How long have you been there?" Stiles asks, getting out of bed. He turns away to hide the comparably shitty state of himself, knowing that he must look awful.

"About three hours," Derek's replies succinctly.

"Why?"

"We still need to talk."

His mind immediately racing, Stiles' hands shake as he reaches into his dresser and fumbles to pull out a complete outfit for the day ahead. Doubt, caused by the odd way Derek had behaved after their kiss, shadows his hopes for any future they could've had. Clutching tightly to a pair of acid-washed jeans, a moss-green T-shirt with a desaturated American flag printed vertically down the front, and a dark-grey hoodie, Stiles spins to Derek with a brave face all ready to go, and then instantly cracks when he sees the concern with which Derek is regarding him.

He can't handle it.

"Can it wait until I've had breakfast, at least?" he pleads, unable to keep the embarrassing note of desperation out of his voice. Derek frowns and looks as if he wants to say something about it, but then he simply nods, allowing Stiles to leave the room.

Fleeing across the hall and shutting himself in the bathroom, Stiles spends as much time as he dares locked inside, very much aware of the fact that Derek will be able to hear everything he does—or rather, everything he doesn't do. He plants himself on the closed toilet lid, fresh clothes balled up in his lap, and works on regaining the confidence that Peter stole from him. Last night he hit his threshold for weakness, and he refuses to wallow in self-pity any longer. He _will_ be strong again, no matter what.

After a minute, there comes a knock at the door.

"Stiles?" Derek calls softly from the other side.

Stiles clears his throat before responding. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna go wait for you downstairs. Your dad's still down at the station so there's no rush. Take all the time you need, OK?"

As Derek's footsteps fade down the hall, followed by the creaking of the stairs, Stiles releases a long breath and gets up, stripping out of his T-shirt and sweatpants in favour of pulling on the clean clothes he'd selected earlier. After closing the laundry hamper he notices a conspicuous absence for the first time—the dress shirt and lacrosse shorts that he'd left on the floor last night are gone, leading him to conclude that Derek must have come in, seen them, and gotten rid of them while he was sleeping.

Stiles is torn between feeling touched at Derek possibly removing an object of trauma for him, and unsettled by the fact that Derek saw up close some of the results of his time with Peter. It'll all have to come out soon enough—and if Stiles' suspicions prove true, that time will be as soon as he goes downstairs—but that doesn't mean he's really ready. The smell of bacon wafts up from the kitchen and elicits a growl from his stomach, so he steps over to the bathroom door and resigns himself to the fact that, as much as he'd like to, he can't put off the inevitable forever.

Descending the stairs, he walks quietly along the hall between the foyer and the kitchen, which seems to have tripled in length since the last time he traversed it. Derek is just turning away from the stove when Stiles enters the kitchen, spatula and frying pan in hand as he transfers strips of bacon to two plates, where they join the scrambled eggs and hash browns already there. Two full cups of coffee complete the meal.

"Here," Derek mumbles, sliding one of the plates across the island.

Stiles takes a stool.

Derek does the same on the opposite side.

Neither of them speak as they eat their breakfast, and though he senses that Derek keeps stealing glances at him, Stiles keeps his eyes trained on his food. He only eats half of what Derek cooked for him, the need for sustenance that his stomach vocalised upstairs not lasting long. Instead he listlessly pushes his food around his plate and sips every so often from his cup, leaving the task of starting a dialogue up to Derek.

Said alpha's appetite is clearly unaffected by the underlying tension, and his plate is cleared following one last stabbing of scrambled eggs with his fork. Then, he's standing to put it in the dishwasher and get a refill of his coffee. Stiles observes all of this out of the corner of his eye, waiting until Derek's large, warm hand is on his shoulder to look up at him. Even then he doesn't meet Derek's gaze head-on, looking instead at the space over his shoulder. The older man nods in the direction of the living room, and Stiles leaves his plate and empty cup where they are to trail sedately after him, keeping some measure of distance between them.

They take opposite ends of the sofa.

"So," Derek begins, putting his coffee cup on the table and shifting to face his silent companion, "I think I owe you an apology. About last night... The way I ignored you wasn't right, especially not after what had just happened, what we'd just been through together, and I'm sorry for that. It's no excuse, but..." He pauses and bites his bottom lip, having difficulty finding the right words. "I was scared, about my new status, what it was making me feel, and how it would affect you."

"What does that mean?" Stiles asks curiously, having not expected this.

"You remember the night we found out Peter was the alpha?"

Stiles nods.

"Well, when I came to you afterward, when I told you that my wolf had grown attached to you, that you needed to stay away... You were right," Derek reveals, picking at a loose thread in the cushion on which he sits. He stops when he accidentally pulls it out and makes the frayed patch larger. "The part about my wolf responding to your feelings for me and the likelihood of it choosing someone else if I'd stayed in New York was true, but I was lying when I said I wished that was the case. Peter threatened to hurt you, because he knew that was the only thing he could say to make me agree to work with him, to threaten the person I cared about most."

He gazes meaningfully at Stiles, his eyes shining.

Stiles' heart skips. "Oh..."

"What I said to you was harsh, I know, and I'm sorry for that, too, but I had to say those things," Derek carries on. "I thought it was the only way I could guarantee your safety. Obviously, you were too smart for that to work, and I was so close to crumbling and telling you what was really going on when you came to confront me, but we were interrupted before I could. Then, after we defeated Peter and I took his alpha status, my instincts were magnified with the new surge of power, and that's why I kissed you. My wolf was right at the surface, recognised that the person it had chosen to be my mate was standing nearby, and couldn't help itself. Afterward, when the adrenaline was wearing off and my wolf retreated, I realised how...overbearing I was being, and in trying to give you space I may have give you too much. I just... I didn't want to frighten you."

Stiles is stunned that Derek, who is usually the epitome of taciturn, is being so open with him. After some contemplation, he shifts to curl his legs beneath himself and address Derek properly, his curiosity about the alien facets of werewolf biology engaging him more completely in the conversation. "I still don't understand how that works," he confesses, running a hand through his growing hair.

"How what works?"

"You talk about how The Wolf has this...desire for me, like it's a separate entity from _you_. I know you said you care, but it still sounds to me like your wolf is forcing you into something that you yourself don't really want," Stiles clarifies, a hint of nervousness causing his voice to adopt a timorous quality. The idea of this not being disputed terrifies him, but he needs to know for sure how Derek feels before he allows himself to hope again for anything more developing between them. He sits patiently, outwardly projecting an image of calm while his chest tightens in panic, as Derek carefully formulates his response.

Even if he doesn't get the answer he wants, Stiles is determined to not fall apart. He doesn't want his reaction to bad news to inspire any guilt in Derek, whose life is already hard enough.

"You're right; I didn't want this to happen," Derek begins.

Stiles' chest tightens further.

"At first. But that's not how I feel now."

Shuffling sideways, Derek moves from the end cushion to the one which was previously separating them. He reaches for and takes Stiles' right hand in his own, an expression of such raw sincerity on his face that all Stiles can do is try to breathe. "This will sound cruel and I don't mean it that way, but if someone had told me a month ago that you were the person I would end up choosing as my mate, I wouldn't have believed them. I never really thought I'd want to be with _anyone_ after..." He clears his throat. "Never thought I deserved it. But least of all with someone like you. I've already said this but I think it bears repeating: I found you so annoying at first that I could barely stand to be around you. Then you started proving your worth and saved my life, though I did threaten you into doing so. And then at the hospital, when Peter told me what was developing between us, I was actually surprised by how OK with it I was."

Derek squeezes Stiles' hand before letting it go. "I do want this, believe me, but I'm still not sure it's a good idea," he says, retreating back to the other end of the sofa. "Your dad is the sheriff, and if we did this, our relationship would have to be hidden. Mine is a dangerous world, and people around me tend to end up hurt or dead; I don't want you to be added to that list. Plus, you're still so young..."

A note of self-deprecation sours his voice.

Stiles frowns.

"I _am_ young, and it means a lot that you're worried for me, it really does, but I'm not some dumb kid who doesn't know what he wants. My involvement in this and with you is my decision to make," Stiles asserts, ready to lay it all on the table. "Neither of us is perfect, and I know it's not gonna be all sunshine and rainbows. I sure as hell am gonna have some issues to sort out that'll get in the way, and from what I know about your past, you will, too. And someone else will probably come along eventually to try and fuck everything up like Peter and Kate did, but I think we both deserve to be happy. You make me happy, manipulative uncles aside, and I think I could make you happy, too, if you gave me a chance to."

It's now Stiles' turn to bridge the gap between them, shifting sideways until he can touch Derek's arm without overextending his own. The way his touch is leaned into tells him that Derek is at least receptive to his point of view. "I think we owe it to ourselves to at least _try_ , don't you?" he finishes.

Derek looks up from his lap.

Stiles sees the tiniest hint of uncertainty remaining in the wolf's hazel eyes.

"Are you sure? _Really_ sure?" Derek asks.

"I am."

Stiles injects as much conviction as he can into those two little words and smiles as he watches that last hint of uncertainty fade away. A fire replaces it, a longing accented by the blazing red that clearly denotes Derek's newfound alpha status, and Stiles feels this heat in his face, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks as they continue to stare quietly at each other. He doesn't know how long they sit there but, the next thing he knows, there comes the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, followed by keys in the front door.

Derek jumps up from the sofa like he's been burned. There's a joke about their chemistry in there somewhere, but Stiles isn't given time to think of it because, in the next second, Derek dashes from the living room to the safety of the second floor. The front door bangs open just as Stiles hears what he guesses is his bedroom door snapping shut, and then the sheriff steps into the house, a sizeable bag of takeout in his left hand and a six-pack of beer in his right. The sight of the latter rekindles within Stiles the sadness he had felt before he fell asleep, when he'd lamented that he no longer had his father to rely on in times of need. The look he'd seen on the sheriff's face after telling him the full story of Kate Argent's death flashes again through his mind and overthrows the jubilation he was feeling from Derek's agreement to give them a shot.

From over the back of the sofa, Stiles discreetly observes as his dad shuffles unconcerned toward the kitchen, not feeling his son's eyes on the back of his head. Stiles gets up and shadows him, allowing his presence to remain undetected as the sheriff takes one of the beers out of the six-pack and pops off the top. His dad drinks deep, chugging half of it without stopping to take a breath. Stiles peeks back through to the living room and gets the time from the clock hanging on the wall, shaking his head when he sees that it isn't even one o'clock in the afternoon.

When he turns to get a plate from the cupboard, the sheriff finally sees Stiles standing there and for a split second appears guilty. Only for a second, though, and then an expression of amiability conceals it. It looks forced. "Hey, son. I didn't hear you come downstairs," the man greets, setting his plate down on the island and pulling out several containers of Chinese food from the takeout bag. "You want some?"

"I'll pass," Stiles answers.

"Suit yourself. Just means there's more for me."

"Are those beers all for you, too?"

The sheriff stops piling his plate high. "Hmm?"

Pointing to the six-pack, Stiles refuses to back down when he receives a look that clearly says it's none of his business. He has already waited long enough to confront his dad about his drinking, and he won't sit idly by like he did years ago and wait for it to resolve itself. That didn't work then and it won't work now. He's tired of tiptoeing around the subject, so he won't anymore. "You're drinking in the day, just like you did after mom died," he goes on, pushing through the dagger of grief that always cuts through his heart whenever he talks about the missing third member of their family. Stepping forward, he snatches the beers off the counter and jumps back when his dad, face contorted in anger, darts forward to try to stop him. He keeps moving out of range until they reach an impasse, on opposite sides of the kitchen island.

"Stiles," the sheriff practically growls, fuming. He makes one last attempt to reclaim the beer from his son and again is too slow to catch him. One of the containers of Chinese food is knocked off the countertop in his haste, noodles spilling out over the floor. "Give those back right now!"

"Why? Do you _need_ them?"

"Stiles... Give. Them. Back!"

"Or what? You'll throw another glass at my head?!" Stiles shouts, immediately jumping on the shock that breaks through his dad's thunderous countenance. "Yeah, you remember that? When I tried to stop you from drinking yourself to death all those years ago and you didn't like it? How you told me, an eleven-year-old _kid_ , that I should have died instead of mom? 'Cause I sure as hell remember it, and I'm not letting you hurt me like that again. I can't take it, especially not after everything I've already been through this year. I _won't_ take it. I could even understand it back then, y'know? You were grieving, and as much as I hated it, I got why. But now? Now I don't get it. Tell me why you're putting me through this again. _Please_."

The sheriff only spares a few seconds to look ashamed. Then righteousness takes over.

"Last I checked, I was the parent here, Stiles," he admonishes, his eyes hard. "I don't have a problem, and even if I did I wouldn't have to explain myself to you."

"So you don't see _anything_ wrong here?"

"Not with me."

Stiles turns his watery eyes to the ceiling, disappointed and over it. "Fine... You want to stay in denial? I won't stop you," he says, holding the six-pack out as if to hand it back to his dad. Just as the man steps forward to take it from him, he drops it, and all five bottles shatter as they hit the floor, beer splashing and frothing out in a wide circle. Meeting his dad's stunned gaze without compunction, he closes off the part of his heart that belongs to him and throws away the key. "But leave me the fuck out of it. I'm done."

Before his dad can react, Stiles spins on his heel and exits the room, heading with tunnel vision for the front door. He reaches for his car keys, which are usually hung up on one of the hooks on the wall beside the door, but doesn't find them—his Jeep and the keys are still where he'd left them near the Hale house. Pausing only briefly, he still feels the dire need to get out of the house and decides as he pulls on his shoes that, screw it, he'll walk.

Wrenching open the door, Stiles storms outside and slams it shut behind him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he navigates the front path down to the pavement. Some of his neighbours are out in their manicured front gardens, stereotypical housewives sporting sun hats on their heads as they kneel in the dirt, tending to the colourful flowers and plants that grow in neat rows along low fences. Stiles feels their curious eyes as he walks briskly past them. They all no doubt wonder why the sheriff's son is leaving his house in such a state of unrest, or perhaps news of what occurred the night before has already spread through town. Either way, Stiles couldn't give any less of a shit what they think of him, and he continues to walk without having any idea where he's going.

Away from his dad is his only criteria.

He has just made it a couple of streets over when he hears someone calling his name, and he turns around to see Derek jogging to catch up. He stops to let him.

"Hey," Derek pants when they stand next to each other. He frowns when Stiles avoids his gaze, the boy choosing instead to focus on the dark hairs that peek out from deep V of his shirt. He fumbles for what to say next and in the end settles for pressing a gentle hand to the small of Stiles' back, guiding him down the rest of their current street and around the corner. "C'mon, I'm parked just down here. I'll take you anywhere you want, OK?"

As he said, Derek's midnight-black Camaro soon comes into view between two other cars, and Stiles opens the passenger-side door and slides heavily inside once it's been unlocked. Derek gets in next to him a second later, after waiting to allow another car to drive past, and they sit together in a loaded silence. Derek keeps his hands on the wheel, ready to go once he has been given a destination, while Stiles stares unseeingly out the front windshield and mulls over his options. He doesn't really have many, especially not on a Sunday, but after a while an idea strikes him that seems perfect.

"You'll take me anywhere," he croaks, "even if it's far away from here?"

"Anywhere," Derek promises.

Stiles tells him to start driving.


	3. A Much-Needed Escape from Reality

Stiles sits perfectly still on the sand, his head devoid of all thought. He has divested himself of his hoodie, leaving it in the Camaro with Derek's leather jacket. His knees are pulled up, arms wrapped around and chin resting atop them as he stares out at the vast expanse of sapphire-blue water before him. The Pacific Ocean is for the most part calm, the tide providing the only sounds he hears, gentle roars as the waves come in and threaten to nip at his toes. They never quite make it. His face is pinked by the early-evening chill as wind whips around him, the golden glow of the sand gradually fading as the sun gets closer to the horizon, but even with all these signs that time is slipping away, he doesn't move from his spot.

He doesn't want to return to his life in Beacon Hills.

So he keeps sitting.

He and Derek are the only ones on this private beach, a small stretch of sand that is maybe one-hundred feet long and mostly hidden by tall, sloping cliffs. The only way you would know it was there was if you stood at the top of one of these vertiginous cliffs and looked down upon it, like a Greek god looking down at the mortal world from Mount Olympus. The only reason Stiles knows about this place is because he discovered it many years ago, when his parents had taken him on an impromptu trip to the coast in the summer of 2002, when he was seven. He wasn't supposed to venture far from where they had set up camp on the much larger beach further along the coast—which saw hundreds of people each day, as it had that Saturday—but he had gotten bored of building sandcastles by himself and longed for adventure, something more exciting to hold his attention. That something turned out to be the cliffs in front of which he sits in the present.

His parents hadn't been looking his way, deep in a discussion he wasn't supposed to hear, so he was free to wander off. He had squeezed between all the bigger sun-kissed bodies of strangers and walked the snakelike path that ran up the back of the cliffs, flanked by long blades of unkempt grass swaying in the breeze. Once he had reached the top, he had marvelled at the panoramic view with which he was greeted.

He could see everything:

The mammoth expanse of water, the main beach, every building in the beachside town. Peals of laughter had reached his ears and would have been a reminder of where he was supposed to be, but as he watched the ebb and flow of the sparkling ocean, surfers catching waves so far off in the distance that they resembled ants, the knowledge that he should return to his parents before they noticed his absence and started to worry was but a tiny thought in the back of his mind, easily smothered by his wonder and curiosity. It was then that he had looked down and seen the secret beach. Instantly he wanted a closer look. There was only one way to get to it: an old rope anchored into the ground at the cliff's precipice, hanging down along a small groove in the cliff face. He was clearly not the first person to happen upon this hidden space, and the rope was what he had used to get to his quarry. The sand was even finer than that of the larger beach, seemed cleaner somehow, more pure, and there were beautiful scallop shells of many colours washed up on the shore, whites and reds and greens and blues. He had quickly lost track of time gathering all he could, arranging them carefully on the ground and pretending that they were forming the scales of a dragon. To this day he doesn't know how much time had passed before he heard his mother screaming his name from the top of the cliff.

The shrill sound had carried down to him on the breeze.

"Stiles!" she had yelled. "What are you doing?!"

"Playing!" he had replied, nonplussed.

"Get up here right now!"

He had scrambled to comply, leaving his shell dragon forgotten in the sand, and quickly found to his chagrin that he could not climb back up the rope by himself. His dad had to come down and help him, and by the time he was standing back at the top of the cliff his mother was close to tears.

She made him promise then and there to never run away from her again, and he felt so guilty about making her cry that he hadn't even bothered explaining that running away wasn't what he had been trying to do. He simply nodded mutely and allowed her to take his hand and lead him back down the grassy path, toward the parking lot at the bottom. His dad left them briefly to retrieve their belongings from the beach, and Stiles was a bit put out at their trip ending earlier than was scheduled but wisely kept his complaints to himself. The car ride back home was a long one, his mother's frazzled emotions leaving her unwilling to talk much. On the way they stopped off for dinner at a fast food restaurant, and by the time they were back in Beacon Hills, it was well into the evening. The sky was as dark as a raven's feather, without a single star.

"Are you ready to head back?"

The question breaks Stiles from his reminiscing.

He turns to look curiously at Derek.

"What?"

"I asked if you were ready to go home yet," the wolf repeats gently, leaning back on his arms with his legs extended out across the sand. His body language is as relaxed as can be, but his eyes are pools of concern in which Stiles could easily drown, the waning sun making it seem like they are glowing, the hazel colour amplified and even more stunning. "It's getting late; it'll be dark soon, so I think we should at least get out of here before the sun is gone. We can decide what we're going to do then, if you want."

Heaving a great sigh, Stiles has to admit that Derek is right, as loath as he is to move from his spot. "Yeah, OK," he accepts as Derek gets to his feet. He gladly takes the helping hand the older man offers him, and together they walk back to where sand meets cliff. Stiles climbs up the rope first, Derek remaining at the bottom in case he fumbles his grip, and once he stands safely at the top he waits, taking the scenery in one last time. It felt good to return here, provided him with the cathartic effect of recalling treasured memories of a better, simpler time. Just as the sun starts dipping below the horizon, painting the sky a rich pinkish red before it takes all natural light with it, Derek appears above the cliff edge, digging his claws into the ground to get a grip good enough to pull himself up the rest of the way. After wiping the dirt off on his jeans, Derek leads Stiles down the slope, the path more grassy and overgrown than ever, to the extent where you would have a hard time seeing it unless someone pointed it out to you.

Now sat in the Camaro, Derek turns the keys in the ignition and brings the engine to life. He sees Stiles shivering in the passenger seat and turns on the heating to warm up the confined space.

Then, he reaches for his jacket in the backseat.

"Here, put this on."

Stiles takes the proffered leather garment and strokes a thumb almost reverently over the supple material. "You sure you don't mind? I could just put my hoodie back on," he suggests, praying that Derek won't be swayed. A small smile forms on his lips when he gets his wish, and he eagerly slips his arms into the sleeves of the jacket and pulls it tight around him. It is loose on his considerably less stocky frame, and this makes him feel small in a good way, like he is protected. Because of its newness, the scent of the leather is strong, and he is a little disappointed when that is all he smells with a slow, deep breath. Derek's scent hasn't yet had a chance to seep into it like he was hoping, but he is grateful all the same, happy to have been entrusted with the care of one of Derek's possessions, if only temporarily.

"Do you really have to take me back tonight?" he asks.

"I'll have to eventually."

"I know... But can't we wait until morning?"

Derek purses his lips. "It's your decision, though I'm not sure where we would sleep." He mulls the problem over for a minute before coming up with a solution. After pulling up the parking brake, he reverses out of the lot, then drives toward the beachside town they had passed through on the way to the cliffs. "Alright, one night. I think I remember seeing a motel near the edge of town, so I guess we can stay there."  


"I don't have my wallet with me," Stiles points out.

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

Stiles stands awkwardly just inside the door of the motel lobby while Derek rings the bell on the front desk and waits for an employee to appear. The room is comfortably warm and uncluttered, just the desk, a couple of chairs, and a rickety stand which houses a bunch of fliers. They boast attractions in town that guests might be interested in checking out during their stay—a speedboat rental place, a seafood restaurant, a small arcade. Stiles peruses the selection with mild curiosity but finds nothing that stands out to him, though he supposes it wouldn't matter if he had; they would still be leaving in the morning and wouldn't have time to check anything out anyway. Just as he steps away from the stand, the door to the backroom opens and a woman steps through, looking tired but affable. Middle-aged with no makeup, she wears her dirty-blonde hair loose and wavy, quintessential surfer chic, and she sports a healthy tan that tells Stiles she spends a lot of time in the sun, maybe even on a surfboard herself. The tag pinned to her navy-blue polo shirt reveals her name to be Ashley. She smiles at Derek, revealing laugh lines and a neat set of dazzling-white teeth, and asks how she can be of help to him. Derek requests a room, and when Ashley enquires about what beds he would prefer, a single king or two queens, Derek looks at Stiles over his shoulder and defers the question to him.

"Which do you want?"

"Uhh..." Stiles says eloquently, unsure.

He has never shared a bed with anybody before, discounting the few times he and Scott have fallen asleep accidentally during all-nighters in which they did nothing but play video games and stuff themselves silly with junk food, and the single time with Derek that culminated in one of the most uncomfortable moments of his life—and given the amount of sticky situations he has landed himself in over the years, that is saying something. To this day it remains ignored, shoved in a dusty box in the back of his mind. He isn't in any hurry to relive that part, but, he tells himself, that was before they were together. Maybe things would be different now.

Stiles has to admit that the possibility of a repeat performance of the initial waking up, before he had realised who he was snuggled against, is something that appeals to him very much. Mind made up, he goes to give his answer and finds Derek frowning at him and Ashley looking back and forth between the two of them, confused. He must have taken longer to make a decision than he thought.

"I-I'd like a king, if that's alright," he stammers.

Derek just continues to stare.

Stiles blushes.

"So...a king?" Ashley repeats, settling her eyes on Derek.

"A king," the wolf confirms, reaching for the back pocket of his jeans.

Once the money and the key to their room have been exchanged, Derek and Stiles leave the lobby, Ashley wishing them a good night's sleep before the door swings shut behind them, her jokey tone implying something that causes Stiles to stumble. Derek is quick to save him from falling flat on his face, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright again, and he in turn is quick to tell Derek to shut up when he sees the look of amusement on his face, though he doesn't really mean it. Once he gets over his embarrassment, he notes that the air is shockingly frigid, his breath appearing in front of his face in a white mist reminiscent of fog—he doesn't remember it being this cold when they had arrived, but the sun is completely gone now and night has truly set in, so it does make sense. The light from the lobby window casts their shadows far across the ground like giants from some old fairytale, and the scent of the ocean lingers in the air.

Derek stops off at the car to retrieve his belongings, and then they look for their room. Up one set of stairs, Room 16 is all the way on the other end of the walkway, with just one neighbour, and Derek swiftly gets the door open and steps back to let Stiles go inside ahead of him.

The boy bolts inside to check out their accommodations.

"Wow, this is swanky..."

Having expected something just adequate, he is stunned.

It feels much more Hotel than Motel, though he supposes he didn't hear how much of a dent the room put in whatever savings Derek has been living off of since he returned to Beacon Hills.

The carpet is a light sandy beige. A single round white table is positioned near one corner of the room, with two chairs stood on opposite sides of it. The wallpaper is a pleasant teal with vertical white stripes of varying thicknesses. Three photographs of the local beach are hung up, two on one wall, one on another, and along the third wall is a small kitchenette consisting of a stove, a sink, and a fridge. The final wall is reserved for the bed, which is expectedly large with soft sheets the same teal as the wallpaper. Stiles sits on the end of the mattress and bounces up and down a couple of times to test it, smiling when he finds that it is similar to his considerably smaller one at home. This means he shouldn't have too much difficulty getting to sleep.

He will miss his pillow, though.

Derek smiles at Stiles' antics, then tosses his duffel bag on the bed and unzips it, rifling through it for a clean set of clothes. It hits Stiles then that he doesn't have anything to change into, and he is contemplating the grossness of getting back into what he is currently wearing after cleaning up in the bathroom when his vision is suddenly obscured. With a squawk of indignation, he pulls whatever was just thrown at him from his head—a T-shirt, he realises when he has it in hand—and pouts at Derek.

"That was mean!" he whines.

Derek smirks. "I'm sure you'll find a way to go on."

Huffing, Stiles holds up the shirt for a better look. "What's this for?"

"To wear, dumbass."

Stiles doesn't know how to respond.

"I know you don't have anything of your own and figured that, since you were comfortable borrowing my jacket, you would also be comfortable with the shirt and," Derek pulls from his bag a pair of old basketball shorts in the Beacon Hills High colours, "these, too. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"You're not..."

Looking mighty pleased with himself—which makes Stiles roll his eyes good-naturedly—Derek also takes from his bag another Henley, long-sleeved this time, in a rich chocolate brown with black top-stitching on either side of every seam and black patches on the shoulders, and a pair of black pyjama bottoms. He sets them aside to put on a little later, then moves the bag to the floor, out of the way. "Right, while you go get yourself cleaned up, I'm gonna see about getting us some food," he says, taking his car keys out from the back pocket of his jeans. "I'll have to go ask in the lobby, but I'm sure there's somewhere open this late around here. Is pizza OK with you? I haven't eaten since breakfast this morning and I'm starving, and I know you haven't eaten either, so I think I'll get us a large each. Any preference on toppings?"

"Not really," Stiles replies.

"Be back soon." With that, Derek exits the room.

* * *

In the bathroom, Stiles stands in front of the sink and takes the time to examine himself in the mirror. He looks significantly better than he had that morning, the time away from Beacon Hills and his troubles revitalising him. In fact, he would even go so far as to say that he looks almost like his usual self, back from before all the werewolf craziness began. The only differences are his hair, which is longer than it has been in years—he is conflicted about this, but for now casts those feelings aside to assess properly at a later time—and the fact that Derek's clothes make him look thinner than he actually is. Sure, he has always been on the svelte side of things, especially when he compared himself to the other boys on the lacrosse team like he was wont to do every now and then, but what little muscle he does possess is not visible under the clothes of someone much larger. The moss-green T-shirt hangs on his frame, only the shoulders matching up, but he doesn't really see this disparity as a problem. Quite the contrary—the effect of the T-shirt is akin to that of Derek's jacket, where the oversized quality made him feel safe, only this is even better. The T-shirt isn't new and actually has Derek's scent embedded in the fabric, detectable underneath whatever fabric softener he uses, so even though Derek isn't actually there with him in that moment, Stiles doesn't feel alone.

Just as he is finishing up, drying his hands with one of the white hand towels that are folded up in a small pile next to the sink, he hears the motel door bang open. He exits the bathroom to find that Derek has returned with their dinner—the bearded man carries two enormous pizza boxes with two bottles of sparkling spring water balanced precariously on top, all of which he sets down on the table.

Stiles' stomach growls loudly.

"Sounds like I'm just in time," Derek comments.

Nodding, Stiles takes a seat in one of the chairs and pulls the closest pizza box to him, then flips open the lid to reveal a piping-hot, meat-laden, 16-inch work of art. "You weren't kidding when you said large."

"Nope," Derek responds.

Stiles picks up a slice and takes a bite. He releases an appreciative groan.

"Here."  


Opening eyes he hadn't realised he had closed, Stiles blinks up at Derek with his mouth still full. The wolf holds out a brand-new toothbrush, still in its packaging, which Stiles takes after dumping his slice back in the box. He chews his mouthful quickly and swallows. "Oh! Thanks, I hadn't even thought about that!" He grins up at Derek, who brushes off his thanks, then sets the toothbrush down beside his pizza box and picks back up the partially eaten slice, his grin turning cheeky. Derek raises an impassive eyebrow in return, waiting. "You just think of everything, don't you? You're not as dumb as you look!"

"I resent that," Derek retorts, eyes amused.

* * *

After a period of awkwardly lying next to Derek in their king-size bed, Stiles eventually falls asleep just as the clock on the nightstand flips from 00:59 to 01:00. He is awoken a short while later by someone gently shaking him, and his eyes snap open from his nightmare to a silhouette hovering above him. He cries out and tries to scramble away, still caught up in his dream and fearing that the black figure is Peter returning for a second go, but then the lamp on the other side of the bed is flicked on, revealing it to be Derek.

Stiles instantly feels stupid. "God... Sorry," he apologises, holding a hand to his forehead as he tries to get a handle on his breathing. His heart still hammers away in his chest, but the worst of his panic swiftly passes and he is able to look Derek in the eye without feeling too self-conscious.

"Did I wake you?" he asks.

"Yeah..." Derek responds with a frown.

"Sorry. Just...bad dreams. Go back to sleep, OK?"

Silently, Stiles lies down on his side, facing away from Derek, and stares at the blue-and-white wallpaper, counting the stripes to occupy his mind. Derek switches off his lamp, once more casting the room into complete darkness, and Stiles remains perfectly still as the older man shuffles about behind him, likely searching for a comfortable position in which he can return to his dreams. Though exhaustion leaves Stiles' body desperately craving more rest, he fights his eyes as they droop, holding them open for as long as he can until the next time they manage to slip shut without him realising. The thought of succumbing to another nightmare leaves him terrified. He never wants to be thrust back into that position, powerless to help himself as Peter violates him and takes what he wants. It is a cycle—eyes open, shut, open, shut—one that isn't broken until there comes more movement from his bedmate. Then, Derek speaks quietly.

"Stiles, do you trust me?" he enquires.

"You know I do."

"Come here."

Turning around when he feels the sheets being raised, Stiles peers through the darkness at where he guesses Derek's face is. "Come where? I can't exactly see at the moment," he points out. He gasps in surprise when a hand gently takes hold of his arm and guides him over to the other side of the bed, where he ends up lying right next to Derek, able to feel the man's soft breaths on his face. "Derek... What's going on?" he asks. Arms come around him and he is told to hush, and he is in too much shock to do anything but go with it as his face ends up smushed against Derek's chest, Derek's chin coming to rest on top of his head. "Seriously, I'm gonna need an explanation right this second or I'm gonna start freaking out."

"Just relax," Derek murmurs, running a hand slowly up and down Stiles' back to coax him into the embrace. "I think this might help with your nightmares, based on the information I could find on mating bonds after I was clued in on what was happening between us. I'm not going to make you talk about what he did to you before you're ready, but I want you to know... No, I _need_ you to know, I'm here when you are."

"I don't want to burden you..."

"You won't. What I went through wasn't the same, but I promise I'll understand."

A short lull, and then Stiles whispers a thank you.

"You're welcome," Derek says. "I mean it."

There, with Derek's heartbeat in his ears and the solidity of his arms around him, the familiar loveliness of Derek's masculine scent strong in his nose, straight from the source, Stiles finally allows his eyes to close. Right before he drifts off into a dreamless sleep, he feels lips press tenderly against his forehead, and he unconsciously snuggles impossibly closer, moving one of his arms to wrap around Derek's waist in return. He sleeps peacefully through the night, knowing with certainty that nothing can hurt him.


	4. Our New World Order

_\- Monday, February 7th, 2011 -_

Stiles wakes up feeling warm, well-rested, and unable to remember what he had been dreaming about. Sunlight streams in through the curtains and makes the room feel alive, a sign that it is probably time he get up, but cracking open his eyes and lifting his head to check the clock on the nightstand is as much as he is willing to move. He lies on his right side with a still-slumbering Derek pressed up against his back, warm breaths puffing out across the back of his neck. Unlike the last time they shared a bed, Stiles feels no awkwardness or need to get away before his bedmate joins him in consciousness.

He just feels absolute contentedness.

Turning over in the circle of Derek's arms, Stiles snuffles lazily into the impressive musculature of his chest and smiles when Derek releases a small noise and pulls him even closer, like he is fearful of him leaving the bed. There is absolutely no chance of that, not with how comfortable Stiles is. In fact, if he could, he would stay right there for the rest of his life. Tilting his head up, he stares with fascination at Derek's slack face. The wolf breathes deep and slow, without an ounce of the tension he usually carries in his entire being, and his hair is adorably rumpled from sleep. If Stiles were to go look out the window, he is honestly sure he would find nothing on the other side of the glass, just blackness, like this room and its two occupants are the only things in the entire universe. All of the worry and apprehension he had felt the previous afternoon about the reality of his home life is nonexistent, like it was expelled overnight from their little bubble. And all of this is thanks to the selfless man in front of him, who, without hesitation, took him away from it all when he asked. The illusion of perfection is one Stiles enjoys greatly, and he easily gives into the playful urge to run his right index finger down the blade of Derek's nose, which twitches in response. Then, after waiting for him to settle, Stiles repeats the action, his contented smile morphing into an impish grin when this time the resulting twitch is accompanied by a second small noise, this one of displeasure at being disturbed.

When he goes to run his finger down the length of Derek's nose and tease him a third time, he finds Derek peering down at him with one eye and reluctantly lowers his hand again.

"Stop that," Derek rumbles.

"Why?" Stiles asks. "Am I annoying you or something?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, that's a shame."

Narrowing his eyes without any real heat, Derek puts his hand over Stiles' grinning face and pushes him away, back to the other side of the bed where he started the night. The corners of his mouth turn up when Stiles squawks indignantly, bats away his hand—revealing a bottom lip protruding in the mother of all pouts—and calls him a meanie. He also receives a punch on the arm that he barely feels.

Heaving himself up to lean against the headboard, Derek lasts about five seconds under Stiles' puppy-dog eyes before huffing and lifting his arm to allow the boy to slot up against his side. "You're in a good mood this morning," he comments as Stiles gets comfortable. The boy hums his affirmation and rubs his cheek like a cat against Derek's right pectoral, throwing a leg over one of his and effectively trapping it. Derek sighs and puts up with the groping, unused to but unable to offer up a genuine complaint against it. He should have known that Stiles would be the tactile type. Turning his head to get the time, Derek frowns when he sees how little they have before they need to check out, not even quarter of an hour. He settles in for the remainder and is glad when Stiles calms, too. "I take it this means you didn't have another nightmare?"

"Nope, you worked like a charm," Stiles mumbles.

"I'm glad."

"Mmm, you make a good pillow..."

Derek rolls his eyes. "If you say so. Enjoy it while it lasts," he warns, watching the last few minutes tick by. "We don't have long before we have to get up and on the road." Sure enough, the minutes pass swiftly, and when the clock reads 09:00 he gently eases out from beneath Stiles, ignoring his vehement protests, and rolls to the side of the bed. Then, he stretches his arms above his head, grunting as his joints pop, and gets to his feet, leaving Stiles pouting up at him from where he had face-planted on the bed. Picking up his duffel bag from the floor, Derek walks with it into the bathroom to get ready for the drive back to Beacon Hills, smirking to himself when he hears put-out mumblings just before the door clicks shut.

Bemoaning how quickly time has slipped through his fingers, Stiles sprawls out in the centre of the bed—taking the spot Derek had just vacated, which still retains the heat of his body—and stretches his arms across the entire width. He finds that his hands don't reach the edges, a strange thing to him because he has only ever slept in the single-size beds that he and Scott have in their rooms. He doesn't know how he will cope with going back to that after experiencing what it is like to sleep in a king, with seemingly endless space, but he will have to manage somehow. His eyes closed, the sound of the shower turning on catches Stiles' attention, and he indulges for a moment in the image that appears in his mind, of Derek wet and naked beneath the spray. But only for moment. The image and the rush of arousal it causes is soured when Peter's sickeningly smug visage flashes behind his eyelids. The dead man looks so detailed, so real, that it seems for a second that he is actually alive again and taking pleasure in tarnishing what would otherwise be a wonderful fantasy, one that just a week ago Stiles would have enjoyed with only the tiniest hint of shame.

Now, though, the shame he feels isn't just small and born from imagining someone in a compromising position in the privacy of his own mind, someone that he, at the time, didn't think was interested in him at all. How he thought Derek would have reacted if he ever found out was bad enough, but now the shame is stronger and comes from the words Peter had hissed in his ear in the parking structure:

_"I'm sure he'll love knowing I had you before he could."_

Eyes snapping open, Stiles stares miserably at the ceiling. Gone is the illusion that everything in his life is fine, and he is thrown back into the reality of how Peter's actions still affect him. He rubs a hand over his eyes, banishing those heinous words designed to cause friction between him and Derek and conjuring instead the memory of how Derek had looked at him after their talk on the sofa back home. There was such desire there that, even though he still hasn't told Derek what happened to him, from that look and the reassurances he had received last night, he is certain that Derek will still want him when the truth comes out.

As hard as that is for him to believe.

It amazes him how quickly his mood can change for the worse.

"Fuck you, Peter..."

Derek's phone chimes as a new text comes in, vibrating across the nightstand where Derek had put it last night. Happy for something to do, Stiles shimmies across the mattress and grabs it, his eyebrows nearly disappearing past his hairline when he reads the concise message displayed on the screen, from Chris Argent:

' _Allison's bite is gone. Get here now._ '

"Derek?!" Stiles yells, flinging the sheets back.

"Yeah?" comes a muffled reply.

"We need to leave. Now!"

"Why?"

"Allison's turning!" Stiles explains, getting to his feet.

After dropping Derek's phone on the end of the bed, he looks for his clothes and finds only his jeans, no sign of his T-shirt or underwear anywhere in the room. He shrugs and supposes that Derek must have them in his duffel bag, then steps out of Derek's basketball shorts and pulls his jeans up his coltish legs, going commando. He doesn't mind keeping Derek's shirt on his top half, and after slipping on his shoes he perches on the bed to wait for Derek to finish up in the bathroom. It doesn't take long, just a couple of minutes, and then the door opens and the wolf steps back into the main room, rubbing a towel over his freshly washed hair. Derek pauses in the doorway when he sees Stiles on the bed, a strange expression forming on his face.

He is temporarily stunned.

Last night, after they had finished eating—Derek his whole pizza, Stiles three quarters of his—they hadn’t had long until they needed to get some rest. Derek had taken the first turn in the bathroom, and by the time he had returned to get into bed, the lights were already off and Stiles was beneath the covers. He hadn't had a chance to properly see just how his clothes looked on the boy. Now is his first full view, and the raw want that surges through his body when he sees Stiles sitting there clad in his T-shirt shocks him into stillness. Caught off-guard, the wolf—which, ever since that night in the preserve, he has kept stubbornly at bay until he has more time to learn to control all the powerful instincts that come with his new status—almost breaks free from its cage. His teeth ache as fangs start forming, to claim, and when Stiles stands, looking concerned, Derek wrangles his wolf back into its temporary prison with severe difficulty. It feels wrong, but the human half of him knows it is essential he do so, as Stiles will not be ready for anything like that for quite a while. If ever. When he has the wolf back under control, his teeth return to normal and the claiming instinct mercifully fades.

He couldn't have held up against it for long.

"Everything OK?" Stiles enquires.

Coughing awkwardly, Derek nods and finishes drying his hair, then tosses the towel back into the bathroom and switches off the light. "Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbles. He picks up his basketball shorts from the bed and puts them inside his bag before zipping it up, slinging it over his shoulder, and taking his phone back from Stiles to read Chris' text for himself. "You just...look good in that shirt, is all."

The tips of his ears turn pink.

Stiles looks down at himself. "Thanks, I guess."

Derek coughs again and moves over to the door. ”You ready?”

"Yeah. Let's go.”

* * *

Following their speedy egress, Derek drives them past the sign that tells them they are crossing the border into Beacon Hills, his grip tight on the steering wheel. The journey has mostly been one taken in silence, and Stiles could almost feel the anxiety radiating off of Derek get worse as the distance between them and their hometown got smaller and smaller. Even with the three hours it has taken to get back, he isn't sure of anything he can do to reciprocate the emotional comfort Derek has given him over the past day and a half. Having no clue what to expect from the Argents, he is riddled with nerves himself. Still, as bad as he feels for Allison, now that he is back in town it is a welcome thing to have something else to focus on other than his fractured relationship with his dad and what will happen when he enters his house. In the end, Stiles simply reaches over and places his hand on Derek's thigh, keeping his eyes focused on the trees blurring past the passenger window when he sees in his peripheral vision Derek's head turning briefly in his direction.

The warmth of Derek's thigh under his palm makes him feel better, and he guesses from the fact that Derek allows his hand to stay there, grip loosening slightly around the steering wheel, that the contact makes Derek feel a bit better, too. To Stiles it is almost like a reminder that they have each other to lean on in order to get through this next crazy adventure, whatever it holds for them all.

Soon, the Argents' house comes into view.

"Do you know what to expect?" Stiles asks when they are parked.

"No..." Derek replies.

The alpha stares with trepidation at the large domicile. The gates are open but he has parked the Camaro on the curb outside, unwilling to breach just yet what still feels like enemy territory. As far as he knows, no one within the house will afford him much ill will, at least not as much as Kate did. Even so, the anxiety that keeps his heart beating above its resting rate doesn't dissipate, so he sits and observes until he can gather enough courage, only just managing to peel his fingers from around the steering wheel. They surprisingly don't leave any indentations like he was expecting. Stiles' hand doesn't move from Derek's thigh during the long minutes he waits, nor does he ask what they are waiting for, both for which Derek is grateful.

The driveway is nearly full—two cars parked side by side, presumably belonging to Chris and Victoria; Kate's black Range Rover; and a fourth vehicle of unknown origin, similar to the recently deceased Argent's. The windows are tinted so Derek cannot get a hint of what is kept inside.

His best guess is a surplus of weaponry.

The living room window is just visible from Derek's vantage point, and though he sees a flash of someone walking behind the glass, their identity is blocked by the glare from the shining sun overhead. Eventually, following a deep breath, he feels ready to face what he will find inside and unbuckles his seatbelt. Stiles does the same, removing his hand from Derek's leg, and Derek instantly misses the touch. Now that he is the alpha, though, people will be relying on him to be strong, so he tells himself to man up.

"You can do this..." he tells himself.

He reaches blindly for the door handle and gets out.

Stiles walks around from the other side of the car. "You good?"

Nodding, Derek strolls with his head held high across the road, through the gates, and up to the Argent household. From the front steps he can now see into the living room, the sun no longer reflecting off the glass and into his eyes. The figure he saw is still there, facing the room, and he deduces from her red hair that she is Chris' wife. Derek has never met Victoria before, so he doesn't know how she will react to his presence. Hopefully, because Chris seems decent enough now that the truth of his sister’s deceptions has been revealed, she won't present much of an issue. Once he stands in front of the white front door, Derek takes a second to listen for any sounds coming from inside. He can hear distant talking, two men likely in the back of the house, but he cannot get an idea of what they are discussing because, in the next second, Stiles jumps the gun and knocks loudly on the door, causing the conversation to end. The glare he gives the boy is met with a shrug, and when he hears footsteps approaching on the other side of the wood, he straightens his back and tries to project an air of confidence, like he knows what he is doing. Keys in the lock, and then the door swings open to reveal Victoria, who regards him suspiciously for a few tense seconds before moving aside to let him in. Once Derek has stepped over the threshold, she blocks the way once more to prevent Stiles from following.

"And just where do you think you're going, young man?" she demands condescendingly, grasping the door frame. Everything about her looks severe, from her hard eyes and tightly held mouth, to her cropped red hair and her nostrils which seem perpetually flared with irritation. The green wrap shirt she wears billows where it is loose around her waist, the only soft contrast. "This doesn't concern you. Leave."

"But-"

She starts to close the door, ignoring Stiles' protests.

"Victoria!" Chris interrupts, walking down the hall from the kitchen to join everyone else in the foyer. His wife pauses with the door nearly closed, Stiles' wide eyes just peeking through the gap, and Derek looks between all three of them, happy that he doesn't have to intervene himself and get even more on Victoria's bad side than he apparently already is. Chris approaches her and puts a hand on her shoulder. "That's enough. He's just as much a part of this as Derek is, as I'm sure you'll find out soon. Let him in."

Even though it is clear to everybody that she doesn't want to, Victoria relents and allows Stiles to enter the house. After the door has finally been shut, she stands there with her arms held rigidly at her sides, her eyes never moving from Stiles, not even when he shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. Chris, in an effort to lessen the awkwardness, suggests that they move things somewhere more comfortable before talking any further. Stiles takes the offer immediately, skirting in a wide berth around Victoria as he keeps close to Derek's heels. The commodious living room is just as he remembers it from his ephemeral visit a few weeks ago, when he had broken in on Derek's behalf to steal a wolfsbane-laced bullet from Kate's belongings. He hopes no one brings that up as he takes a seat at one end of the large brown sofa. Derek sits next to him.

"Where is she?" Stiles asks.

"In her room," Victoria snaps. "You remember where that is, right?"

Stiles flushes and looks down at his lap. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt.

Derek growls darkly. "Don't talk to him like that..."

She smirks. "Or what?"

"Cut it out, all of you!" Chris shouts, stepping in between Derek and his wife when he sees red creeping into the hazel of Derek's irises. He locks eyes with Victoria, the two communicating silently until she scoffs and goes to sit in one of the armchairs. "OK... Now, let's just all try to remain civil, please.”

"Fine," Victoria grumbles, crossing her legs.

Chris sits down on the armrest of his wife's chair, keeping himself between her and the two guests in their home, and Derek is about prod further into Allison's condition when he hears a faint noise coming from the kitchen, like the shifting of feet on a hardwood floor. His head turning fast to the right, he is instantly alert and only then recalls the second male voice he had picked up from outside. "Who else is here?" he asks with a frown, wary of any surprises. His eyes widen when, a few seconds later, as if they had been waiting for this cue, the source of the noise steps dramatically through the archway between the living room and kitchen, revealing themselves: Gerard Argent, whom Derek only saw once during his tryst with Kate.

The older man remains imposing.

He stares inexpressively right at Derek, and even though Derek is no longer a teenager and doesn't fear being caught with his daughter, kissing sloppily and fumbling with each other's clothes in the backseat of her car, those old feelings are quick to return as if they had never left. Their eyes stay locked for what seems like an impossibly long time, and when things speed up to normal again, the impassive expression on Gerard's face is gone, replaced by a cheerful smile that Derek almost buys.

Chris stands to make introductions.

"This is my father, Gerard."

"Thank you, Chris, but I don't think I've aged enough to reach the point where I'm no longer capable of speaking for myself," the grey-haired man says with a chuckle, patting his son a couple of times on the shoulder before turning from and effectively dismissing him. The way Chris immediately backs off without taking offence, reclaiming his spot on the armrest of Victoria's chair, speaks of how deeply he venerates his father, admires him as a leader and for the wisdom he has acquired through what must have been years of ceaseless work. Gerard doesn't acknowledge his daughter-in-law at all, though she doesn't seem to have a problem with this—she is too busy to notice, staring out the living room window and pretending that the two people sitting on her sofa are not there. Instead of on Victoria, Gerard's attention lands again on the older of the two guests that she is so studiously ignoring. "Derek Hale... I never thought I'd see you again."

Derek just nods jerkily, tight-lipped.

Stiles goes to ask his companion what is wrong but is stopped when Gerard moves on to him. The man steps forward to introduce himself personally, holding out a wrinkled and calloused hand for him to shake. Stiles does so, almost wincing when his hand is taken in a tight and almost bruising grip, and gets the impression that this is some sort of power play. He doesn't rise to it.

"And you are?" Gerard asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"I'm Stiles, sir. I'm with Derek."

This snaps Victoria out of her window-gazing.

"With Derek how?" she interjects.

Stiles looks to the man in question, silently asking for permission to answer honestly, and turns back to the nosy woman when he gets it with another nod. "Like...in a relationship with...?"

"Now that's interesting."

Stiles gulps. "It is?"

The smile she sends his way is the definition of unfriendly. "Yes, it is."

Chris levels her with another warning look.

" _Anyway_ ," he says pointedly, returning to his role as mediator and holding both hands out in a move akin to someone trying to calm down a frightened animal. "I think we should move this along. Allison is rattled enough without all of us squabbling amongst ourselves and making everything worse for her. Like it or not, we're going to have to work together to make sure she gets through this transition with as little difficulty as possible. She needs an alpha, and Derek is the only one for miles around. As far as I understand it, they will need regular contact in order for her to not become an omega, so Derek, and now Stiles by extension, will probably be over here quite often. And Derek will need a beta so he doesn't lose himself, too, so it's a win-win situation. This is in everyone's best interest, so we should make an effort to start getting along now rather than later." The reminder of her daughter's needs causes Victoria to change her tune to something less openly antagonistic, a turn for which Stiles is extremely thankful. "Now, as Victoria said, Allison is upstairs in her room. We told her what she is turning into and all we could about werewolf hierarchy, but there is only so much about all of that we can know secondhand. I think it would really help, Derek, if you went up there and introduced yourself."

"I agree," Derek says as he stands.

A minute later sees Derek following Chris upstairs, Stiles bringing up the rear, and down to the end of the second-floor hallway. They pass by Kate's open door on the way, and Stiles can't help looking inside. He finds it completely empty and wonders what happened to all her possessions.

"The police took everything for evidence," Chris informs him, like he had read his mind.

"Does Allison know what happened?"

"No. Not yet." He knocks on his daughter's door.

And they wait.


	5. The Cat's Out of the Bag Now

Derek stays with Stiles just inside the door of Allison's room and allows her father to move past him. The girl looks so pitiful sitting in the middle of her bed that he cannot help but feel sorry for her—her hair is messy and unwashed, the remnants of the curls she had worn the night of the winter formal all tangled together. There are also traces of that night's makeup on her otherwise plain face, like when she went to wipe the tears that caused her mascara to run in black lines down her cheeks, she could only muster up enough energy to do it halfheartedly. The white nightgown on her body almost blends her into the bedsheets, only her head and the pale skin of her neck, shoulders and arms exposed.

Like Chris' text said, Peter's bite has vanished.

There is just unblemished skin left.

The room reeks of fear, confusion and anger. The first two emotions are easily attributed to the metamorphosis Allison is currently undergoing, and from the way she glowers at her father, the look laced through with distrust, Derek attributes the anger to the fact that she was kept in the dark for so long about the true nature of the family business. While Chris talks in hushed tones to his daughter, Derek looks around the room, in search of small clues and hints that will make the process of forming a bond with her less difficult. He is disappointed with what he finds.

The floor is pale hardwood. The walls are painted a soft pink, a colour so light it could be mistaken for white at first glance. Several posters for various bands and films are pinned to the walls, none of which Derek finds familiar. There are no windows—instead, light shines into the room through tall glass doors, which lead to a small balcony outside. Deep blood-red curtains hang from a white pole screwed into the wall along the top. On the desk to Derek's right there is a jewellery box, the lid flipped open to reveal a unorganised cluster of earrings, bracelets, rings and necklaces, the chains of which loop around each other like thin metallic snakes. A hair brush and a bunch of hair pins and ties are next to the box. On top of an Apple laptop on the other side of the desk is a stack of school books and what Derek suspects is Allison's diary, locked up tight by a tiny padlock that even human strength could easily break. There is a large heart drawn in black marker right in the centre of the lurid pink cover, within which are two sets of initials written in a delicate script:

' _A.A. + S.M._ '

Derek rolls his eyes right as Chris addresses him.

"OK, Derek.”

Refocusing, he steps toward the bed, leaving Stiles standing by himself. With wary eyes, Allison watches his approach and, when he perches on the end of her bed, shuffles back toward the headboard. "You don't have to be scared," he assures, tapping purposefully into his alpha instincts for the first time since he shut them down in the preserve. He is nearly overwhelmed by what crashes into him.

His wolf is straining insistently in three directions, the nexus in a series of web-like threads—the first thread is the strongest and shines the brightest. It connects him to Stiles and comes with the desire to take what is theirs, to protect, to mark and claim the boy as their mate before someone else has a chance. The other two threads are inherited from Peter and connect him to his betas. Allison's is new and fragile, like Derek was expecting, and won't get stronger until they become comfortable with and start to trust each other. Scott's thread is almost nonexistent because of the open disdain they harbour for each other. The fact that Scott would also be transferred into his charge had never occurred to him up until this moment.

He shakes off this tiny revelation.

"I know this must all be so strange," he continues, "and you don't know me and have no reason to trust me, but as your alpha I'm going to do my best to help you through this, OK?"

"My alpha?" Allison squeaks.

"Yes." Derek allows his eyes to glow red.

Allison recoils. "You're like him!" she cries.

The intensity of her reaction surprises Derek enough that he loses his grip on his power and his irises return to their natural hue. Allison continues to cower under his wide-eyed gaze, and after a second of reflection he concludes that he should have expected this and eased her into things with an even gentler hand. After all, the last time she saw anybody with red eyes—which would be a freakish enough sight all on its own—was when she was abducted by a serial killer. It seems only logical that meeting someone else with red eyes would elicit this panic. A storm of inadequacy jars him into inaction, and he sits there, hands limp in his lap, certain that if he does anything else he will just screw things up even further. Taking Peter's alpha status had seemed like a good idea at the time, like retribution, but this day has made him realise just how far out of his depth he is. He is self-aware enough to know that he has almost no people skills, so why did he think he could pull this off? Still, what's done is done and, like Chris said downstairs, there is no other option now but to push forward and try to live up to the title he naively saw fit to give himself.

He will never be his mother, whom most considered a paragon.

But at the very least, he will be better than his uncle.

Jumping in to help when he sees the flash of defeat on Derek's face, Stiles walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down close to Allison, going slowly so she can see everything he is doing. He reaches for her hand with both of his and smiles at her encouragingly. "Derek is nothing like Peter was, Ali."

The nickname comes naturally.

"Yes he is!" she insists.

"No, he isn't."

"How can you be sure? His eyes are the same..."

"Believe me, I've known Derek for some time now, and in that time all he's done is protect me and save my life repeatedly," Stiles says with a small smile. "I mean, it's not like I'm a damsel in distress or anything. I have my uses and have saved his ass a couple of times, too, most recently on Saturday night when, uhh..." He stops himself, wisely not disclosing just _how_ he had saved Derek's life. "But anyway, yeah, he's a good person, and he'll look out for you if you let him. Plus, I'll be here, too, and so will your parents and Scott. You're not alone here." He would prefer to leave his ex-friend out of this, but he knows that Allison had nothing to do with Scott's betrayal, not intentionally, and her boyfriend's presence will likely help with the transition.

Allison looks a little less terrified, so he counts it as a win.

Derek is of the same mind.

He mouths a thank you to Stiles when the boy glances his way.

As uncertain as he had been a couple of days ago about nurturing their burgeoning relationship, he is really starting to believe that they can make things work. The hope is alien to him, alarming, as is the small spark of happiness in his chest. Derek has never wanted anything like this for himself for the longest time, and while that instinct of self-preservation is still there, telling him to call it quits before it all inevitably goes wrong like everything in his life has told him this will, too, it is easy to ignore.

What Stiles lacks, he has.

And what he lacks, Stiles has in spades.

Derek watches in awe as Stiles keeps talking animatedly with Allison, in that patented way that had annoyed him to no end at first. He sees the method behind the madness now—the way Stiles pulls her out of her shell and gradually gets her to open up until, if Derek couldn't hear their words and didn't know otherwise, he would think they were just two ordinary teenagers shooting the shit. Soon, Allison is asking question after question, to all of which Stiles provides an answer with seemingly no trouble. Derek and Chris are reduced to just casual observers, letting Stiles work his magic until he actually manages to get Allison to smile at one of his jokes—a dog joke that Derek will smack him up the back of his head for later on. He lets him get away with it for now, not wanting to disturb his rapport with Allison. Her father seems similarly enamoured; while there is a small layer of envy in Chris' expression, jealousy at Stiles' ability to get through to his daughter when he himself couldn't, for the most part he just looks thankful that Allison is no longer upset.

Yeah, Derek thinks, they really can do this.

* * *

After setting up Allison's first training session for the following weekend—which Chris, Victoria and Gerard will all be attending—Derek and Stiles walk back to the car. "Well, I'd say that went well," Stiles comments as he straps himself in. "She seems nicer than I thought she'd be. I don't know what she sees in Scott..."

Derek makes a non-committal noise.

"She took everything surprisingly well, too."

"That was because of you," Derek murmurs, keeping his eyes pointed straight ahead. "You were a big help back there. I don't think it would've gone nearly as well as it did if it was just me—I wouldn't have been able to get her to come around like that—so...I just wanted to say thank you. For, y'know, helping." He has never been the most demonstrative person in the world, even before Kate got her metaphorical claws into him and murdered most of his family. But, especially after the debacle with the sheriff, he wants Stiles to know that he has someone in his life who appreciates him.

Stiles grins, bemused yet pleased.

"You're welcome, I guess," he says. Then: "You seem different lately."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, expressing yourself more."

"So?"

Stiles pats Derek a couple of times on his knee. "I don't really have a point, Sourwolf. I just think it's nice that you're comfortable enough with me for that. I would've never expected it this early on. I thought it'd be like pulling teeth to get you to open up if we were ever together."

Derek hums. "I suppose," he agrees as he brings the Camaro to idle at a red light. Stiles' hand stays on his knee. "I've just never really had anyone I needed, or wanted, to let in like that, at least not since I was your age. Not even Laura, and we were always close, as much as she enjoyed it whenever I got into trouble. It's hard, but I'm trying." There is more to that sentence that goes unsaid— _I'm trying to be the person you deserve_ —but he doesn't yet want to say those words. Considering where he started off, though, progress is progress, and how far he has come already is nothing to be scoffed at. He glances to his right when Stiles squeezes his knee, and the small smile on the boy's face causes his heart to skip in his chest.

A car honks impatiently behind them.

"Light's green," Stiles urges.

Derek presses his foot down on the gas and they shoot out of the intersection faster than he intended. Stiles laughs as he regulates their speed, and he glares right back, secretly enjoying the sound.

The car is silent for the next few minutes, until Derek pulls to a stop in the crowded parking lot of his favourite childhood diner, Phil’s. "You don't have to do anything for me you don't really want to, you know," Stiles blurts, turning his head to look out the passenger window at the flashy building. "If this whole self-improvement kick is something you're doing for yourself then great, but if you're just doing it because it's what you think I want, you should know it's not necessary."

Derek looks at Stiles, stunned, and his lack of reply causes Stiles to look back.

"What?" the boy asks. "I'm a _very_ perceptive person."

"I know..."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

Derek turns back to the front windshield. "I'm not looking at you like anything," he retorts, internally cringing at his extreme lack of eloquence. "I want to change. I'm tired of always being by myself in the shadows, so what does it matter if the impetus for that want wasn't internal?"

"In that case I totally, completely, wholly support you!" Stiles coos, beaming. He can't help himself—not when Derek looks so adorably earnest—so he reaches over the centre console to pinch both of Derek's cheeks, his beatific expression staying in place even when the wolf slaps his hands away and scowls at him, unimpressed with the jocular cosseting. His grin soon relaxes into something fond. "Just don't go changing too much, 'K? You might worry what it says about me, but, apart from the obvious packaging and the failure of wanting your help to get Scott under control, part of what drew me to you in the first place was your dark and brooding nature. You wouldn't be you if you lost that completely."

Derek smiles back.

Tender moment over, they get out of the car and enter the diner.

Despite living in Beacon Hills his entire life, Stiles has never eaten there before and gets a kick out of the stereotypical 50's design, right down to the bright-red booths, the metal napkin holders, and the black-and-white checkered floor. Once they are seated in one of the booths in the corner, their waitress, a peppy girl who looks just a couple of years older than Stiles and who wears far too much eyeshadow, flirts excessively with Derek. Much to Stiles' amusement, all of her advances are met with a stony expression. Finally, after bringing out their orders of cheeseburgers, curly fries and ludicrously large chocolate milkshakes—Stiles gets brain freeze from drinking his too fast—she finally picks up on the fact that Derek is spoken for, takes it in stride, and starts squealing about how cute they are. Derek thinks this is even worse. After paying, they get back in the Camaro and, because he is still reluctant to return home, Stiles suggests that they stop by the hospital to see how Lydia is doing. Now that he is back in town, he feels a little bad about skipping out so hastily and leaving all of his friends behind, especially when he didn't have his phone with him and couldn't get updates on Lydia's condition. He hopes that she has woken up by now.

When they reach the hospital, they are perplexed when they see several police cruisers parked outside the front entrance. Slipping inside, they use Derek's ears as their guide and walk through the lobby, down a series of corridors, and toward where two deputies are talking outside of Lydia's hospital room to a frantic Melissa McCall. Stiles has never before seen the woman in such a state.

"I already told you what happened!" she all but yells at Deputy Parrish.

"I'm aware of that, but it sounds-"

"Crazy, I know, but it's what happened!"

Stiles moves closer to the commotion and draws her attention. "What's going on?" he asks, his eyes widening when he sees Lydia's empty hospital bed. "Where is she?!"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Parrish says.

"I don't think we're going to get anything useful right now," the other deputy drawls, closing his notepad. Middle-aged, he has tan skin, blond hair, and an Australian accent, and the metal pin attached to his shirt reads Andrewartha. Stiles doesn't recognise him, but he hasn't been down to the station—at least not voluntarily—in a while. This deputy is likely a new transfer and, despite having only just met, Stiles gets the impression that he is not a very nice person. "How about we give you a chance to calm down and then, in a little while, we'll try this again and you can tell us what _really_ went down here. Alright?"

He walks away without waiting for a reply.

"Sorry about him..." Parrish mumbles before scurrying after his partner.

Stiles turns back to Melissa and again asks, "What's going on?"

Melissa sighs.

"I wish a had a proper answer for you, kiddo, but I'm really not sure," she answers, slumping tiredly against the wall. The animated quality she had possessed when Stiles and Derek had entered the scene is gone completely, replaced by self-doubt. "I feel like I'm going insane..."

Stiles is dimly aware of Derek walking past him and entering Lydia's hospital room, probably to look for clues or something, but he keeps most of his focus on the woman in front of him. "Look... I need to know what happened, or what you think happened, to Lydia," he pushes, coming to lean against the wall beside her, like a small show of solidarity. He bumps their shoulders together, and finds the reversal of their roles, the fact that he is the one trying to comfort her instead of the other way around like it has been for pretty much their entire relationship, incredibly strange. "Trust me when I say that my life has been pretty insane lately, so I don't think there's anything you could say that would shock me. Try me."

Melissa runs a hand down her face.

"Umm, well... I was just making my rounds and, even though she isn't in my care, I came to check on Lydia Martin because I knew she was a friend of yours," she explains, taking advantage of the small row of cushioned chairs that line the opposite wall. "At first I didn't realise that anything was wrong—I just checked her vitals and looked at her chart to see if anything had changed—but then I noticed that her injuries were gone. The paper stitches on her face were still there, but the cuts they were keeping closed while they healed weren't. I was just about to call the nurse in charge of her care to see if she knew anything about this, but then Lydia suddenly opened her eyes and sat up. She looked...feral. Her eyes were bright orange, and she had fangs. Honest-to-God _fangs_! I screamed, and then she smashed the window and leaped out... That's when I called 911. I had just finished telling the deputies all of this when you appeared. God, this sounds even crazier than I thought..." She turns to look at Stiles. "That shocking enough for you?"

"Well, uhh..."

Derek comes back into the hall, looking grim, and saves him.

"She's turned," he sums up.

Stiles springs to his feet. "We have to find her."

They start walking away but stop when Melissa yells after them.

"Wait! I still want to know what's happening here!" Her eyes are alight with indignation. "Stiles, who is this man and why the hell don't you seem surprised by any of this?"

Not wanting to be delayed any longer—there is no telling the kind of havoc Lydia has already wrought with her new abilities—Stiles puts his hands on Melissa's shoulders and squeezes them gently. "I promise I'll explain everything and answer every question you have later, but right now it's really important that we track down Lydia as fast as possible, OK?" he assures, giving a disingenuously confident smile.

Melissa frowns.

"Just sit tight.”

* * *

Night has officially fallen when Derek and Stiles get outside. Using the scent he got from the rumpled and clawed-up sheets of her hospital bed, Derek tracks Lydia away from the hospital and into the dense trees of the preserve. They go on foot so he doesn't lose the trail—with Derek giving Stiles his phone so that he can keep track of his footing in the darkness—and take comfort in the fact that Lydia headed away from civilisation instead of toward it. Things could have been much worse. Nevertheless, they both feel a powerful sense of urgency, a need to find her before that has a chance to change.

"How can this happen?" Stiles wonders out loud.

"How can what happen?"

"How can she have turned? I didn't think she was bitten."

"It's extremely rare, but I remember overhearing my parents discussing something like this when I was a kid," Derek says, pausing them both briefly when he loses Lydia's trail. He finds it again a short distance away, along with some claw marks in the trunk of a tree, and they set off once more. "The bite of an alpha isn't the only thing that can turn someone. There are cases where the change was triggered by an alpha's claws going deep enough, and from what I've heard about Lydia's condition, Peter clawed her up pretty bad. I guess she just happened to be one of the rare ones." They reach a steep incline. Derek sends Stiles down first, temporarily taking back possession of his phone and using the light to illuminate the way for the boy's weaker eyes. When Stiles is safely at the bottom, Derek jogs down the incline, too, and hands his phone off again.

Stiles has just finished processing this new information when a shrill scream splits the air. It bounces between the trees until it sounds like it is coming from every direction.

"Lydia?!" he yells, spinning in place, lost.

Luckily, Derek is able to pinpoint where the scream originated from.

"This way!"

Together they run—Stiles falls a little behind, but never to the point where he loses sight of Derek in front of him—until the trees break suddenly and they find themselves in a small clearing. A sapphire-blue car is already parked right in the middle. A black shape moves atop it, pounding and scratching.

Stiles directs onto this shape the light from Derek's phone.

Orange eyes shine back as Lydia stops trying to get at whoever is in the car. Her red hair is a tangled mess around her face, and the way her hospital gown falls down over one shoulder reveals smooth skin devoid of even one claw mark—something Stiles was expecting but that still unnerves him. Her gown slips even further as she rises up, and Stiles keeps his gaze resolutely focused on her face as his own grows hot. A low growling fills the clearing, and just as Lydia looks like she is bracing herself to pounce on Stiles, Derek grabs her ankle and drags her forcefully off of the car. The scrap that follows is truncated when Derek shifts into his beta form, unremittingly pins Lydia's struggling form to the ground, and releases a stentorian roar right in her face. She instantly stops fighting for freedom and goes limp. Stiles emerges from behind the back of the car—which, as soon as the scrap started, he had used as a barricade in case Lydia made another bid for him—and approaches the pair. Lydia's shift recedes slowly and intelligence returns to her eyes, and she blinks bemusedly up at Derek as he shifts back to normal, too. He stands and offers her a hand, which she takes, and once she is back on her feet she pulls back up the shoulder of her hospital gown. No one speaks until the passenger door of the car opens, and all three turn to look as one of Lydia's would-be victims clambers out.

Stiles' heart stops when he sees long blonde hair. "Oh shit..."

Erica shakes with residual fear.

"What. The hell. Was that?!"


	6. Draw Back the Curtain and Let in the Light

Stiles sits with Derek in the Camaro, looking nervously up at his house.

All of the windows are dark and the sheriff's cruiser isn't in the driveway, both signs that the building is empty. Stiles is full of nerves despite this and bites into his bottom lip, only stopping when he draws blood and Derek turns to him with a frown, nostrils flaring at the pungent scent of copper that permeates the still air inside the car. "Sorry..." he mumbles, taking the tissue Derek retrieves from the glove compartment and dabbing lightly at the small cut until the bleeding stops. Derek stays silent next to him, patiently giving him all the time he needs to gather the courage to go back inside his uninviting house.

"Is he home?" Stiles can't resist asking.

"No," Derek replies, "he isn't."

"OK, good. That's good." Stiles fumbles with his seatbelt, then grasps the door handle. "You up for joining me?" he asks, not wanting to be alone just yet. When Derek accepts his offer he smiles in relief and gets out into the darkness, taking a deep breath before crossing the street and standing at the bottom of the driveway. He shivers as he waits for Derek to park the car somewhere less conspicuous, humming a familiar yet nameless tune under his breath until the leather-clad werewolf reappears beside him. After unlocking the front door, Stiles pushes it open and enters his home, his steps cautious even though he knows he won't be facing his dad tonight. Derek's presence helps a great deal, gives him strength, and as he enters the kitchen his stomach rumbles loudly, a sound that is echoed almost immediately by Derek's. The tiled floor is sparkling clean, without a single trace of broken glass or spilled beer, and Stiles is glad for it because it stops him from dwelling for too long on how he and the sheriff had parted ways. He opens the fridge and looks for something to eat. "Hmm, we've got quite the exciting selection. What do you feel like? There's still some leftover Chinese in here from yesterday, or I can make some eggs or something. Or there's cereal; Cheerios or Corn Flakes."

"Corn Flakes are fine," Derek says, taking the box when Stiles hands it to him along with the milk. Stiles sends him a strange look when he takes a bowl from one of the cupboards, surprised by the ease with which he moves around the kitchen. "What? I had plenty of time to explore when I was hiding out here."

"Right..." Stiles mumbles, getting his own bowl.

"Just shut up and eat."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, oh alpha, my alpha."

Derek flicks a Corn Flake at his face.

They take stools side by side at the island, sharing minimal conversation. As they eat, Stiles is pleased to discover that the calm state in which he has wallowed with Derek over the past few days hasn't dissipated with their homecoming like he had feared. Their camaraderie is as intact as ever—though, seeing as they were only like this before for the short period of a few days, 'as ever' might be the wrong way to put it. It doesn't take long until their stomachs are full. Stiles brings the rim of his bowl to his lips and drinks with a noisy slurp the last few drops of milk that remain—Derek shakes his head but says nothing to discourage this uncouth display—then struggles to put both bowls in the dishwasher. There is over a week's worth of dishes already there, inserted haphazardly and without any discernible order, so he has to do some rearranging on the bottom layer to get the two new additions to fit. When satisfied, he switches the machine on to run overnight.

"Do you think leaving Lydia at the hospital was the right thing to do?" he asks as he dries his hands with the dishtowel that hangs along a rail just beneath the sink.

"It's hard to tell," Derek responds.

Stiles waits.

"She's new—brand new—to all of this," Derek elaborates, turning on his stool to properly face Stiles when his neck starts to protest. He leans his elbows back on the island, and Stiles immediately finds reassurance in this relaxed position. It doesn't project confidence, exactly, but at the very least it projects something better than outright worry. "She'll have all these new instincts, wants and desires that will be completely foreign to her, and it'll take a long time for her to understand them all and to learn to adapt to them. She'll have to fit her old human self into this new, animalistic and, in some ways, more base self, to find the stable synthesis of the two that born wolves know innately. Her complete loss of self when she woke up in the hospital and scared Melissa half to death is a testament to how difficult that will be."

Stiles hangs the dishtowel back on the rail. "I sense a but."

Derek stands and says, " _But_ , I honestly think she'll be fine, at least for tonight. While you were calming Erica down, I took Lydia through as much as I could on the topic of control, about finding an anchor you can use to keep hold of yourself in times of stress or anger or sadness. She seemed to understand the concept a lot faster than I thought she would. It'll still take her a while until she masters it, but she made more progress in that half hour than I've ever seen from a newly bitten wolf."

"That sounds promising."

"It is," Derek nods.

Stiles checks the time on Derek's phone, then hands it back to its owner. "I've still got a couple of hours until I have to get some sleep for tomorrow," he says, pushing away from the counter. This brings him closer to Derek than he had anticipated, but he doesn't move away. "Are you staying?"

"I can, if you want me to."

"I do."

"Then I'll stay."

After gifting Derek a shy smile, Stiles leaves the kitchen with a skip in his step.

He throws himself carelessly onto the sofa—choosing the middle cushion so that Derek has to sit next to him—and reaches for the TV remote. But then, he spots something balanced precariously on one corner of the coffee table and freezes with his hand in midair: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. Next to this is a tumbler containing slightly tinted water, likely from the ice his dad had used to keep his drink cool mixing as it melted with the few drops of whiskey left at the bottom of the glass. As far as Stiles was aware, there was no other alcohol in the house when the sheriff had come home with the six-pack of beer. He must have bought some more after their confrontation. All happiness disappears from Stiles' face, and he feels something in his gut, a strange pang of both sadness and disappointment, and for a few seconds he doesn't know why. But then, after some rumination, during which Derek asks if he is OK and gets no reply, he figures it out: Deep in his subconscious, the smallest part of him was hoping that maybe their explosive falling out yesterday would have been enough to make his dad see the error of his ways. That is evidently not the case, and the good mood Stiles had attained through his time alone with Derek slips away just like that.

Annoyed now, Stiles snatches up the Jack Daniel's and the tumbler and puts them inside the liquor cabinet in the dining room. He slams the door shut and keeps his hand pressed to the dark wood as he tries to calm himself down again, becoming aware during his third slow exhalation that Derek is standing a short distance behind him. "I was really hoping that it wouldn't affect me anymore," Stiles whispers, still facing the cabinet. He digs his short nails into the wood. "I hate that he can still hurt me with this..."

"He's your dad," Derek says.

"Yeah, no shit!" Stiles laughs humourlessly, then feels contrite. "Sorry..."

"It's fine; I understand," Derek accepts, taking a few steps forward. Stiles turns and closes the rest of the distance, pressing them together as much as he can from head to toe because he needs to feel the way Derek's arms come around him a second later. He presses his nose into the curve of Derek's neck and just breathes, the sensitive skin of his cheek tingling as the short hairs of Derek's beard scrape across it. The vibrations of Derek's firm chest as he speaks somehow provide a warming effect that runs through Stiles' entire body. He thinks fleetingly that maybe this is another part of the whole mating-bond thing that the wolf was talking about the night before, but then he just squeezes Derek tight and listens: "You can't just stop caring about someone at the drop of a hat. Trust me, I know... With Kate, as much as I hated her for what she did, the romantic feelings I had for her didn't just stop after the fire. It took months of me hating myself for feeling anything but contempt for her for it to stop. So of course you still care about your dad; he's your family."

"I'm not so sure anymore..." Stiles mumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Family isn't supposed to do things to hurt each other like this. Family is supposed to love and support you no matter what. Does that sound like my dad to you?"

"I guess not, no..."

Stiles takes another few seconds to enjoy their embrace, nuzzling into Derek's neck and finding amusement in the way Derek shudders against him, then pulls away. "Whatever. I'm done dwelling on him. I'm just gonna try to salvage whatever is left of this evening before the craziness of tomorrow," he declares, his sour mood beginning to recede. He swears he will get whiplash soon from how fast he keeps switching from happy to sad to angry and back again. Stiles returns to the living room but pauses on the threshold when he notices that Derek is not following. Looking back over his shoulder, he becomes confused when he sees that Derek is staring at the liquor cabinet with an unreadable expression on his face. "You coming?"

Derek responds with a slow nod, seemingly finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from the cabinet. When he finally does, he sits back on the right side of the sofa, Stiles settling against his side, and prepares himself for whatever terrible TV the boy feels like subjecting him to.

* * *

_\- Tuesday, February 8th, 2011 -_

Stiles sits awkwardly in the Argent living room, perched on the armrest of what was Derek's armchair and watching as the alpha paces back and forth in front of the fireplace. They are waiting for Chris Argent to return with Scott and Lydia, for the last players to arrive so they can get started with what will likely be a difficult discussion. On the sofa, which is really only large enough for three people, Melissa, Erica and Boyd—who was the other person in the car Lydia attacked in the preserve, and with whom Erica had been dancing at the winter formal—sit squished together with Allison, and all of them stare impatiently at Stiles as the time ticks by, wanting the explanations they were promised last night. Gerard Argent is a shadowed figure in the corner, present yet separated from the proceedings, an observer that makes Stiles' skin crawl. From the kitchen there come the sounds of tea spoons clattering inside of tea cups as Victoria prepares refreshments, the only sounds made apart from Derek's footfalls. Soon, she brings into the room a tray piled with eleven tea cups, along with a porcelain jug of milk and a bowl containing a small mountain of sugar cubes. Every piece of the set boasts an old-fashioned floral motif. After setting the tray down on the coffee table, Victoria squeezes herself forcefully onto the sofa, causing a scowling Erica to have to move into Boyd's lap.

"Ugh, this is taking forever..." the blonde complains.

"Indeed," Victoria sneers.

"They should arrive soon," Derek placates, holding out his palm, "so be patient for a little while longer." The act of pacing becomes tiresome, so instead he moves to stand like a statue by the window, watching for Chris' car on the street outside. It is a pointless action because he will obviously hear it before he'll see it, but the illusion of actively doing something is comforting. Stiles gets up to stand with him.

The tea goes completely untouched.

After ten more minutes of tense quiet, Derek perks up when he hears the rumble of a familiar engine, followed by Chris pulling to a stop next to his Camaro outside. Lydia climbs out of the front passenger seat as soon as the engine is shut off, all checked out of the hospital and with her put-together front once again securely in place. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in perfect waves over her cerulean-blue silk blouse. Scott is slower to leave the car, and when he sees Derek looking at him from the living room window the mild curiosity on his face dissolves into a grimace. He looks like he is seriously contemplating leaving, but when Chris calls his name from the open front door he reluctantly traipses into the house.

He freezes when he enters the living room.

"Mom? What are you doing here?"

"I'm still waiting to find that out myself..."

Taking this as his cue, Derek breaks away from Stiles and Lydia and positions himself again in front of the fireplace, the centre of attention. "Now that everyone is here, we can finally start."

"Start what?" Scott pushes.

Melissa shushes him.

"I'd like to preface this by saying that, despite what happened last night, no one in this room means anyone else any harm," Derek promises, crossing his arms over his chest. Scott tenses up as he comprehends the reason for this gathering, his eyes flicking down to the back of his mother's head before he glares at Derek. He is ignored as Derek instead looks in turn at Melissa, Erica and Boyd, addressing them directly. "There is more to this world than you're aware of, and all three of you got a small glimpse of that last night. It's been a necessity that as few people as possible know about this, which is why no one told you, but I guess it's unavoidable now." He glances to his right, meets Stiles' eyes, and gets the encouraging nod he needed. "I thought for hours about the best way to ease you into this, but I don't really think there _is_ a way—it'll come as a shock no matter what, so I guess I'd just rip the Band-Aid off: Werewolves are real."

He is met with stunned silence.

"Come again?" Erica asks, narrowing her eyes like she suspects Derek of trying to trick her. She glances sideways at Stiles, the beginnings of laughter on her face disappearing fast when she doesn't find the same expression of mirth on his, then turns back to Derek. "You can't be serious."

"I am," he says simply.

"But...no. No, this is unbelievable. I didn't come here to have my time wasted like this."

Melissa and Boyd say nothing.

"Show her," Stiles speaks up from the window.

Derek does just that. He shifts into his beta form, eyes turning red, coarse hair growing down the sides of his face, and teeth turning into fangs. Erica leaps up from Boyd's lap with a squeal, fear and intrigue warring on her face; Boyd just stares, looking unaffected until a small glimmer of surprise breaks through his phlegmatic facade; and Melissa audibly gasps and holds a hand over her mouth, her skin paling. Band-Aid ripped off, Derek pushes back the wolf and waits for the upset to fade, for the questions to begin.

"How...? How is this possible?" Melissa asks breathlessly.

An hour-long explanation ensues, with Derek and Stiles at the centre of it all.

They recount their lives over the past couple of months. Melissa is outraged when she learns how much Scott has been lying to her, particularly when it comes to his terrible treatment of Stiles, and demands to know why he would do something like that to his best friend. Scott keeps his mouth shut, but the look she sends him when she is forced to drop the subject makes it clear to everyone in the room that she will be picking it right back up again as soon as she can. Allison looks confused and a little guilty but joins Scott in silence. When the discussion moves on, others start chipping in—Chris adds more input about the hunt for Peter, continuing to leave out Kate's part in it all; Allison talks about being kidnapped by Peter and bitten in the preserve; and Lydia speaks of how Peter had lured her onto the lacrosse field. The first time she has told anyone the truth of what happened, tears build in her eyes halfway through as she details how Peter had stolen Jackson's phone and pretended to be him, texting her and asking her to meet him so they could patch things up. Lydia swears she wasn't going to do anything more than tell him to go to hell, but by the time she realised what was really happening it was too late to run. Stiles throws an arm around her shoulders as she sniffles, refusing to move away when her tenuous control over her new abilities slips ever so slightly.

Derek is worried for a second, but Lydia gathers herself again quickly enough.

"I'm fine," she promises.

Sometime later, Stiles finishes telling the story of the fight with Peter, perched again on the armrest of Derek's armchair. Derek now occupies the actual seat. "And then Derek took care of Peter and became the alpha," he concludes, not missing how Melissa's gaze lingers on Derek's hand where it rests on his thigh, an obvious sign of familiarity and, to her eyes, probably more. She wouldn't be wrong. He will most likely have some more explaining to do soon, but he is reasonably confident that she won't do anything to interfere in their relationship, not now that she knows everything Derek has done for him.

"So what happens now?" Erica asks.

"Well, I guess we just go about our lives as normal, as much as that's possible," Derek muses. "Stiles and I will be meeting regularly with Allison, Lydia and Scott so I can train them and help them get a better handle on their powers. I guess, now that you know about all this, you're free to sit in on those sessions if you want."

"Hell no," Scott scoffs angrily.

Everyone turns to him.

Stiles frowns. "What's your problem?"

"I'm not training under _him_ of all people. He's a dick!"

"Scott!" Melissa scolds, standing up. "What's gotten into you lately?!"

"I've moved on to better things, that's what."

"Better things?"

Scott looks askance at Stiles. "Less pathetic people, y'know. People who aren't _murderers_."

Stiles flinches, then sighs deeply. Even though he had been anticipating something like this as soon as Chris had suggested that Scott be in attendance of this meeting, he still somehow feels let down by Scott's antagonism. Sure, he has had plenty of time to get used to the beta's new antipathetic attitude over the past couple of months, but with Melissa present he had honestly been hoping for some forced civility at the very least. That was clearly asking too much of Scott and his endlessly decreasing levels of maturity. Just like in the preserve, out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees Derek tense up, preparing to come to his defence. But, as much as he appreciates the protective instinct Derek has been developing of late, he knows it wouldn't do anyone any good in the long run. Taking Derek's hand, he gives it a small reassuring squeeze, letting him know that he is alright. That isn't the end of it, though, because then Scott mutters something under his breath—Stiles thinks he catches the words 'disgusting' and 'dickheads'—which causes a ruction. Erica again leaps up from Boyd's lap, this time looking like she wants blood, but Lydia reaches Scott first, darting across the room in a flash and wrapping a hand around his throat. Everyone is too surprised to stop her as she lifts him with seemingly no trouble into the air, even when he starts desperately fighting her grip, his eyes shining with fear.

Erica halts in her name-calling and just watches with a satisfied smirk on her face as Scott fails to get free, his legs kicking fruitlessly at whichever part of Lydia's body they can reach.

He makes a sorry picture.

Lydia doesn't react to any blow Scott manages to land, just stares up at his face with such contempt that no one dares to get in between her and her captive. Not even Melissa, who looks on, terrified both for her son's safety in spite of his outburst, and of the entire mess in which she has so unwittingly found herself. Derek is the one who finally tries to break it up, sobering from his shock and disbelief as Scott audibly begins to choke. He leaps from his chair and races over to the pair, trying with surprisingly little success to pry Lydia's fingers from around Scott's neck. For a while Lydia doesn't respond to him—nor to Stiles when he, too, gets involved—but soon enough she returns to herself and releases Scott.

He crumples to the floor in a gasping heap.

Stiles pulls Lydia away from him—allowing Melissa to come to his aid—and back over to the window. She goes willingly, her eyes never leaving Scott as he regains his breath, not until Stiles waves a hand in front of her face and demands to know what she was thinking. His voice is still kind. "I wasn't going to let him get away with talking about you and Derek like that," she responds unrepentantly. "I didn't mean to lose control and attack him, but I don't really regret it. He deserves taking down a peg or two..."

Stiles can't help but secretly agree.

"Scott, honey, are you alright?" Melissa asks, crouching down next to her son.

"No, I'm fucking not!" the beta spits. He jumps to his feet, recovered.

Melissa looks like she has been slapped. "Scott-"

"I'm done here."

With one last dark look in Stiles' direction, Scott storms sanctimoniously from the room, leaving Melissa gaping after him. The sound of the front door as he slams it shut behind him is as loud as a gunshot in the ensuing silence, making everybody jump. Looking with Lydia and Derek out the window, Stiles watches as Scott walks briskly down the driveway, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans like the stereotypical angsty teenager who thinks the whole world is out to get him. To Stiles, that description seems fitting. Scott pauses briefly when he passes Derek's car, and, following a glance back over his shoulder, like he is making sure he still has an audience, aims a forceful kick at the bottom of the driver's-side door. A considerable dent is left behind, and with a proud smirk he carries on his way, soon vanishing through the open gate. Derek shakes with rage and, even though he doesn't do anything then, Stiles takes the fiery expression on his face as a sign that retaliation will come sometime very soon.

Stiles won't be the one to stop him.

Gerard chooses then to step out from his spot in the corner, grinning.

"I'd say that went well!"


	7. You and I Are Moving Up in the World

_\- Wednesday, February 9th, 2011 -_

Stiles sits in the school parking lot, nursing the cup of plain coffee he'd bought on his way there as he watches his peers migrate slowly into the main building. He wishes he had purchased something stronger, because his eyes keep drooping and he knows that, when the caffeine kicks in, it won't be enough to help him push through the exhaustion he feels in his bones. Last night was difficult. Derek wasn't there to keep the nightmares away, so he was assaulted by images of Peter and Kate every time he dared to close his eyes. Derek didn't tell him why he couldn't be there, but Stiles trusts him enough to know there had to have been a good reason. He feels guilty for relying on him for succour so much anyway, so when they left the Argents he'd let Derek drop him off without a peep in the preserve, by his Jeep. Later, after trying for a couple of hours, he gave up on sleep and just put on a bunch of movies one after the other, without really paying attention to any of them. If someone were to quiz him on their main plot points, he would fail completely. That miserable time was good for one thing, though—it lead him to the conclusion that he needs to unburden himself very soon of his experience with Peter, or else, because Derek can't always be there and it wouldn't be fair for Stiles to expect him to be, there will doubtless be many more sleepless nights in his future.

Everything at school seems normal, as if nothing had happened at the winter formal on Saturday. Laughter and smiles abound, and Stiles is a little envious of the other teenagers' lives, which in a moment of weakness he perceives as easy. Objectively he knows he shouldn't think that—they all have their demons, regardless of whether it shows on the outside—but the envy is there nevertheless.

He takes another sip from his cup.

"Hey!"

Someone bangs on the driver's-side window, startling Stiles and making him spill coffee down his front. He swears at the mess and turns to see Erica's face on the other side of the glass, looking a little sorry for causing the spill but not as much as he would like. With the towel he keeps in his gym bag in the backseat he tries to clean up the worst of it, but the white T-shirt he wears is a lost cause. Shoving the towel back in its home, Stiles gulps down the last few sips of his coffee, takes his keys from the ignition, and shoves open the door. Erica steps back to make room, and they fall in step with each other as they walk.

"You look like shit," she observes.

"I feel like it," Stiles responds as he pulls his backpack over his shoulder. It's a challenge to pick his feet up every time he needs to take another step, and he considers it a miracle that they manage to get all the way to his locker without him collapsing. As he puts in his combination he feels Erica's eyes on the side of his face, waiting for an explanation, but he doesn't feel like giving one and, to his relief, she doesn't push it. She looks away from him after a while to scan the hall, and Stiles is about to ask who she is looking for when Boyd appears, seeming to spring right up out of the ground. Stiles almost jumps. He probably would have if he had the energy, but as it is he simply nods at the third member of what is apparently his new friendship group.

Boyd nods back and slings an arm around Erica's shoulders.

"Anyone seen Lydia or Allison?" Stiles asks, shutting his locker.

Erica frowns. "They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"They're not in school today."

"Why not?"

"After what Lydia did to Scott, Derek and Mr. Argent thought it was a good idea to keep them out 'sick' for another day or two, until they have better control of things," she explains, leaning into Boyd's side and reciprocating his embrace with an arm around his waist. Even though his lips don't so much as twitch, Stiles can tell that Boyd is incredibly pleased by this. "I'm surprised no one told you."

"I guess that's a good idea," Stiles admits.

Erica nods. "Yup, you're stuck with us, I'm afraid."

"God help me!"

* * *

When the bell rings, Stiles leaves his last class with Boyd and allows himself to be shuffled outside in the flow of other students. Lacrosse practice is supposed to start in a few minutes, but he can't bring himself to go. He realised earlier that he hasn't attended a session in weeks, and because Coach Finstock hasn't yet loudly brought this up during class like he normally would whenever someone doesn't show, Stiles is happy to assume that he is off the team for good. As far as he is concerned, the less time spent around Scott and Jackson the better. He was always on the bench anyway. At the top of the school steps, Stiles stops when he finds he can't remember where he'd parked his Jeep. Holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he tries to spot it in the sea of other vehicles slowly draining from the lot. It takes until half the student body has left the premises for him to locate his Jeep, but, when he descends the steps, his focus is drawn elsewhere, to a familiar black car that pulls up right in front of the school. Derek emerges from it a second later and waves him over, traces of cheerfulness shining through his usual stolid expression when their eyes lock. The fact that Derek is happy to see _him_ of all people, that he was the one who put that barely-there smile on Derek's lips, greatly lifts Stiles' spirits.

He isn't the only one to notice Derek's arrival.

Clusters of teenage girls stare openly, practically drooling.

"Oh my God, who is _that_?!"

A couple of them talk in stage whispers close by, and Stiles can't help but smirk when he overhears them wondering who such a 'smoking-hot' guy is there to meet. The smirk fades quickly, though, when he reaches Derek and the girls express their disappointment at the answer being 'that Stilinski freak'.

Before Stiles can tell him that they aren't worth it, that he should just ignore them, Boyd breaks away and marches over to the two girls. He makes for an intimidating sight at the best of times—six feet, two inches of looming muscle—but especially now, when he draws himself up to his full height, the irritation radiating off of him in waves making him seem taller still. The girls are tiny by comparison, like vermin about to be squashed by something much more powerful. "Is there a problem?" Boyd asks, the timbre of his voice low and dangerous. Stiles never would have believed it if someone told him that very morning that Boyd possessed this darker side, and he watches, a little amused and a little scared himself, as the two girls stand there with their feet seemingly glued to the ground, their terrified eyes bugging out of their sockets.

"Uhh...no?" the braver of the two squeaks.

"Really?"

She gulps. "Y-yes..."

Boyd bares his teeth in a malevolent grin, and Stiles is almost tempted to feel sorry for the girls when they start shaking. He can't quite manage it, though, their disparaging words ringing in his ears. "Yeah, that's what I thought," Boyd says. "Why don't you leave now, before we _do_ end up having a problem?" The girls scurry off across the parking lot, glancing back over their shoulders as if to make sure that Boyd is not in pursuit. Once they are out of sight, he returns silently to Derek and Stiles, who are both stunned, and turns back into the unassuming giant that Stiles had been getting to know all day.

"What?" Boyd asks when Derek and Stiles keep staring.

Stiles shakes his head to clear it. "Nothing... I just never expected that from you."

Derek agrees.

Boyd tries to shrug it off. "Yeah, well..."

"I mean, I'm impressed but...why? We barely know each other."

"I hate bullies," Boyd explains, crossing his arms over his chest. "Always have. As for not knowing each other, I know how highly Erica thinks of you. That's good enough for me."

Uncharacteristically speechless, Stiles fumbles for something to say and fails. He ends up just holding out his fist, which Boyd regards for a couple of seconds like he is unsure what to do with it, then bumps his own against it. With a nod of acknowledgement to Derek, Boyd leaves the two of them standing by themselves next to the Camaro. Now that the ruckus is over, Stiles observes that the parking lot has become significantly clearer—there are no more phalanxes of teenagers waiting for rides home, and, apart from the Camaro and Stiles' Jeep, the few vehicles that are still scattered throughout the area belong to students likely participating in after-school activities, or to teachers, staying late to grade papers or work on lesson plans. Now that they are basically alone without distractions, Stiles remembers the question he had been about to ask Derek before the pair of sneering girls had interrupted him. "Not that I'm not happy you're here, because I am, but I was wasn't really expecting to see you today, least of all here. Why the drop-by?"

"I have a surprise," Derek teases, the barely-there smile returning when Stiles instantly perks up like a meerkat. "I'm not going to spoil it, but I will say that it was the reason I couldn't keep you company last night. Part of the reason, anyway, but let's not get into that now. C'mon, hop in." He opens the Camaro's passenger door. "It won't take long, and I'll bring you back here for your Jeep after."

* * *

Derek says nothing more about the nature of his surprise for the whole drive, refusing to buckle when Stiles tries to inveigle clues out of him. Stiles gives up halfway there and, managing to hold on to his good mood even though he is in the dark, garrulously fills the silence with tales of his day, specifically about his new Chemistry teacher, Mr. Wallis. A fifty-six-year-old man possessed of a caring disposition, he is a stark contrast to who he had replaced. Stiles was glad that he no longer had to put up with Mr. Harris, who made his life a living hell for almost two years, though part of him also felt guilty for that gladness. Then he'd remembered that the ornery man played a part in the Hale fire, and the guilt went away.

While he talks, Stiles pays close attention to all the street signs that pass by his window, trying to figure out where Derek could be taking him. He is stumped, though, when Derek drives them through town without stopping, all the way to the outskirts on the opposite side, a place he never goes. They end up parked in front of a towering building in an area of Beacon Hills that, for as long as Stiles remembers, has been basically desolate. It is constructed of dark-brown bricks, with old-fashioned sliding windows in orderly rows going up eight floors. The ninth floor is the only one that is different—it features a much larger window in the centre, about twelve times the size of the others and with a curved top. Derek chuckles when he sees Stiles' bemused expression, then unbuckles his seatbelt. Stiles does the same, and they both exit the Camaro and walk across the empty lot to the rusty double doors that serve as the main entrance to the building.

"What is this place?" Stiles asks.

"You'll see soon enough."

"So you're really not gonna tell me?"

"Nope."

With a huff, Stiles cautiously steps inside when Derek holds open the door for him. The dark and capacious room in which he finds himself is for the most part empty, containing only a few dozen dusty boxes piled up in the far corners and a large desk off to one side, the wood rotted through like it would fall apart under the smallest weight. The high ceiling is dotted with smashed light fixtures, and along the opposite wall is a large service elevator and a grey door, propped open to reveal a stairwell.

"OK..." Derek mutters as he enters behind Stiles. "Up we go."

He walks toward the elevator.

Stiles is aghast. "You expect me to get in that?!"

"It's perfectly safe."

"It doesn't _look_ safe..."

With an indulgent smile, Derek takes Stiles' arm and pulls him gently inside the cab. A single exposed bulb swings non-stop where it hangs from the middle of the ceiling, even though there isn't a draught. In one corner is a large water stain—at least that's what Stiles hopes the stain is from—and there are ancient scuff marks all over the floor from the soles of many different pairs of shoes. "I've already used this several times, and you told me on Sunday that you trusted me," Derek softly reminds his young companion, pulling down the elevator door with a loud bang and sealing them inside the cab. He turns back to Stiles with one eyebrow raised. "Do you really think I would ask you to take this thing if I had even the smallest suspicion that it was dangerous?" He waits until Stiles shakes his head before pressing the button for the top floor, causing the elevator to judder to life as it slowly takes them up to their destination. When Stiles holds his hands out at his sides like he is attempting to stop himself from falling off a tightrope, Derek rolls his eyes and steps closer to put a firm hand on his shoulder, providing him with some additional support. "I promise nothing bad will happen, so just try to relax, OK? We'll be there before you know it."

Stiles takes a deep breath and finds that it doesn't really have much of an effect, his body remaining tense for the entire ride. But, like Derek said, it isn't long until the elevator stops moving again and he is staggering out onto more stable ground. He would kneel and kiss it if it wasn't so filthy with God knows what. Derek, looking deeply amused, walks past him to a large sliding metal door.

"Here we are," he says.

Stiles, having gotten a handle on his anxiety, joins Derek by the door and, at Derek's encouraging nod, grasps the cold handle and yanks it open. He is surprised by how smoothly it slides on its railing, and when it reaches the end it comes to a stop with a dull thud. The first thing Stiles registers is the window directly across from him. It's the same one he saw from outside, almost floor-to-ceiling and wide enough to take up nearly the whole wall, and while the panes of glass are a little dirty like everything else Stiles has seen so far, they provide a spectacular view of the blue sky. He stands in the entrance and gets caught up in watching the clouds drift by, until he senses movement at his side. Derek moves into the room and spins to face him once he is in the centre, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Take a look around," the wolf says.

"Uhh, OK..."

Only then does Stiles stop staring at the sky to take in the rest of the room.

While mostly barren, there is still a lot to look at. The most striking feature—apart from the windows, of course—is a black metal staircase on the left side, leading up to what Stiles guesses is roof access. There are two closed doors on either side of the room; the bathroom and kitchen, Derek explains when he asks. A skylight is built into the ceiling, and in the middle of the floor are two pieces of furniture, a burgundy three-seater sofa and an onyx coffee table, which stand out because of their apparent newness. Slowly putting the pieces together, Stiles joins Derek by the sofa and runs his fingers over the soft upholstery.

On the right side of the room, an off-white partition with black wood frames divides the space in two, and behind this is another new-looking piece of furniture: a king-size platform bed. The crisp navy-blue sheets don't look rumpled at all, so Stiles assumes that the bed hasn't yet been slept in.

"Is this your new place or something?" he asks.

"It's not finished yet, but yes."

"It's pretty damn big."

Derek shrugs. "Yeah, I thought it needed to be," he explains, perching himself on the back of the sofa, hands still in his pockets. He attempts to look relaxed, but the nerves he is burying are still visible if you look close enough, like Stiles always does. "I still have a lot to do before I'll be satisfied, but since we're starting to form a pack I figured I'd better find a proper place to live. I can't squat in my old house anymore, and I can't hide out at your place forever, either. So...what do you think?"

Moving away from the bed, Stiles turns in place and looks over everything one last time. "I like it," he decides, not missing the way Derek's body instantly loses its rigidity, finally achieving a truly relaxed appearance. "You've never struck me as someone who needs a lot in life, so this suits you to a T. It's simple in a good way but still has character. I can definitely imagine you living here. I'll miss having you around so much, but I guess this is for the best." He bites his bottom lip and elaborates when Derek's expression becomes worried. "Don't get me wrong—we'll still see each other a lot if I have any say in it, but I don't know... Not to make this moment all about me, but I was actually just thinking about this before school. While I really, _really_ appreciate you helping me like you have these past few days, I feel like I've let myself slip into a state of codependency with you. I don't like that. I don't want to become too dependent on you, or on anyone, really, not to the point where it becomes a negative or unhealthy thing." He stands by the window now, his eyes returned to the glacial clouds in the sky. "After Peter and Kate, and then my dad, it was like I lost the part of myself that made me strong. Confronting my dad was the first step, and I think you not being there for me to lean on 24/7 will give me the push I need to get my strength back, to become independent again."

He turns to face Derek. "Does that make any sense?"

"It does," the alpha replies, his eyes warm.

Pleased, Stiles crosses to the sofa and sits on the back next to him.

This close, he notices the small upward curve of Derek's lips.

"Why're you smiling like that?"

"No reason."

Stiles looks unimpressed and says, "I don't believe you."

Derek breaks their eye contact and gazes unseeingly through the skylight, not speaking for almost a full minute. His voice is quiet and bashful when he finally opens his mouth, and the tips of his ears turn pink, something that Stiles finds incredibly adorable. "I'm just proud of you," he murmurs, jumping when he feels Stiles' hand slide into his. He looks down at them and interlocks their fingers.

"Thanks," Stiles says, grinning. "I'm kinda proud of me, too."

Derek huffs out a laugh, and the sound makes Stiles grin even wider.

"So..."

"So...?" Derek echoes.

"Tell me the rest of your plans for this place."

* * *

They don't leave the loft for another hour. After Stiles had assured him that he really was interested, Derek showed a new side of himself as he explained all he wanted to do to turn the loft into a home. Stiles was fascinated by this almost childlike enthusiasm and did everything he could to draw more of it out as they talked about all the perfect appliances and facilities that would go in the bathroom and kitchen. Both rooms stayed hidden behind their closed doors, and Stiles was curious for all of two seconds before Derek told him not to bother checking them out—the loft was completely gutted before the building was abandoned, so he would find nothing there but exposed pipes, cracked tiles and torn wallpaper. This was a positive thing that would save him some time and energy, Derek surmised, because he would have replaced anything that was there with new stuff, anyway. Stiles couldn't help but agree when he thought of how long the loft must have gone unused, though he did wonder how Derek would get running water and electricity. He was dubious when he found out that Derek planned to do all the work by himself without consulting a professional beforehand, but Derek was adamant and said that he found great satisfaction in working with his hands. Stiles had to admit that the idea of Derek in a tool belt was oddly titillating, so he offered no further protest.

Now, they pull to a stop in the deserted school parking lot, right next to Stiles' Jeep, as the sky turns red over the horizon. "Keep me updated on how the loft comes along, alright?" Stiles requests as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "I'd love to help, if there's anything you end up needing help with."

"I will," Derek promises.

"I guess this is goodnight, then."

Derek lowers his eyes. "Actually...not just yet."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... Please don't be mad, but the other reason I couldn't be there for you last night was because I wanted to speak to Melissa," Derek says cautiously, fiddling with his keys in the ignition. The jingling is loud in the confines of the car, and he forces himself to stop fidgeting when Stiles' eyebrows shoot up to his hairline then meet in a frown, clasping his hands together in his lap. "Part of that was to tell her about our relationship and how it came about before she could form any wrong conclusions, and she wants to talk to us together now. But the other part... You'll find out why when we get to your place."

Stiles grabs the door handle. "Should I be worried?"

"I'd say no, but I'm honestly not sure."

Bidding a temporary goodbye to Derek, Stiles climbs in behind the wheel of his Jeep. He sits there for a minute and tries to think of what else Derek could have talked to Melissa about, but, when he cannot come up with anything plausible, he just starts driving. The headlights of the Camaro tail him, and when he turns off the engine in his driveway—which is absent of his dad's cruiser, a regular occurrence nowadays—he finds Melissa's car parked on the curb. Derek pulls in behind it and follows Stiles into the house, where they find Melissa waiting for them in the living room. She rises from the sofa when she sees them enter, a sad but determined expression on her face, and before addressing Stiles she nods at Derek, silently communicating something to him. His face turns grim and adds to Stiles' worries.

"Come on, honey," Melissa says with a heavy sigh. "Let's sit down." She holds out a hand that Stiles apprehensively takes, and when they are seated side by side on the sofa, with Derek hovering close by but giving them some distance, she doesn't let go. "We need to have a serious talk."


	8. Changes in Living Arrangements

"I think you'd better take a seat as well, Derek, because this concerns you, too," Melissa reveals. The wolf turns quickly away from where he had been gazing through the living room window, his eyes wide like a child who has just been caught doing something he shouldn't. Seeing such a juvenile expression on a man of his age and build amuses Melissa greatly, but she pushes the feeling down in order to uphold the seriousness necessary for what she has to say. She waits in silence as Derek awkwardly steps closer and sits down on the edge of the coffee table, forming a triangle between the two of them and Stiles. "I'll just jump right in so we can move past this to the real reason I'm here: I have some reservations about what's forming between you two, and you both need to be aware of them before I can allow it to keep going."

Stiles tenses up.

Derek opens his mouth to speak, but stops when Melissa holds up a hand.

"I know you've already spoken to me a bit about this, Derek, and I appreciated your honesty," Melissa says, returning her hand to her leg when she's sure that he won't try again to interrupt. "I swear to both of you that I don't mean any harm by bringing these things up, but I still have some concerns."

She clears her throat. "First: the age difference. Stiles is only sixteen, and you, Derek, are twenty-four. Eight years is a big gap, especially when the younger person is in their formative years and still has a few to go. There are a lot of problematic situations that can come up in a relationship like this, but the most pressing I'd say is the possibility of a power imbalance. I'm not accusing you of anything like that, Derek—in fact, from everything I know about what's happened since you came into Stiles' life, I don't think I really have to worry about that here at all. But it still needs mentioning. Stiles is a teenager in high school who has always lived at home and has, as far as I'm aware, never had a serious relationship before," Stiles flushes a deep scarlet at this and looks down at his lap, embarrassed, "whereas you are an adult. If you two are going to move forward with this, you'll need to make sure you remain equals, that nothing even resembling an imbalance of power creeps in. If it does, then I'll step in stop it, whatever that entails. Just keep an eye on it, is all I'm saying. Then there's the fact that you're a werewolf, Derek. I don't know everything that means, but I _do_ know that you could very well be dangerous for him." She tilts her head in Stiles' direction. "Since meeting you, he's already been involved in two mass murders, one of which affected him directly."

"That wasn't really because of Derek, though," Stiles interjects.

Melissa turns to him, her raised eyebrow telling him to elaborate.

"He wasn't the reason I got involved."

"He wasn't?"

"No, that was because of Scott," Stiles insists, desperation weaving its way into his voice because he _needs_ Melissa to understand. "I went to Derek because I thought he would be able to teach Scott the ropes or something. Derek tried to keep me out of what was really going on but I'm me, so I wouldn't listen, and then when Scott went rogue and Peter started killing people, I was already in too deep. I'm the one who pushed my way into Derek's business because I wanted to help. Things just progressed from there."

Melissa purses her lips as she works this new information into her understanding of things. "I see. That's good to know, but it doesn't change the fact that you're now tangled up in something that could be extremely dangerous for you, and not just physically. I let it go, but I could tell when I dropped you off that night that something was wrong psychologically. How could it not be? But I think you know that better than I do, and I'm not going to ask you to take a step back from this. As you said, you're already in, and as much as I would like to, I certainly won't be able to step back myself and forget about all of this, not now that I know people I love could be put in danger at the drop of a hat. All I ask is that you be careful, don't take any unnecessary risks, and keep me posted on everything that goes on. And I mean _everything_ , even if you think it isn't important. I want you to promise me." She looks between Derek and Stiles, directing the request at both of them.

"I promise," Stiles says immediately.

"I promise," Derek echoes.

"OK, good..." Melissa smiles, relieved. "I think that's all for now. I don't have any true objections to you two, but just...stay safe, alright? And keep in mind what I said; I don't want to see anyone get hurt. Now, on to the real reason I'm here." She looks to Stiles. "We need to talk about your dad."

"What about him?"

"I haven't been around much lately," Melissa admits, ashamed of herself. She lets go of Stiles' hand and runs her own wearily down her face, then regards him with such motherly compassion that he shifts restlessly in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of it. "I've been working too much, and that meant I didn't see the signs when I probably should have, of how badly Scott was treating you or of your dad's growing dependence on alcohol. I'm sorry for that. But, thanks to Derek tipping me off last night, I'm here now, and I'm going to help you however I can. I tried confronting your dad about his drinking earlier today, while you were at school, but he wasn't having it. It didn't even seem to matter that it was affecting you like it is. He's so far in denial, even more than he was after... After your mom passed."

Stiles' stomach twists unpleasantly.

"I've never told you this before," Melissa continues, "and I still don't want it getting back to Scott, but I know what a toxic environment like this can do to a person, especially a child. Rafael... He used to drink a lot, and one night it got so bad that there was an accident and Scott got hurt. That's when I made him leave. You're like a second son to me, and I can't just sit back and allow you to stay here when your dad is like this. Until he gets his act together, I think it would be best if you came to live with me."

Stiles gapes. "What?"

Even Derek looks shocked.

"I want you to move in with Scott and I," Melissa reiterates.

Stiles can't find the words. "I don't... Just...what?"

She grabs his hand again.

"I know you and Scott aren't getting along, but I'll talk to him and at least make sure he stays out of your way. It isn't good for you to stay here while your dad is like this, so please," she begs.

"Do it," Derek chimes in, over his shock.

Stiles turns to him. "You really think I should?"

"I do," the alpha says ardently, covering Stiles' free hand with his own where it rests on his knee. The touch is watched keenly by Melissa, but there isn't any judgement or disapproval on her face so he doesn't back off again just yet. "Remember what you told me on Monday evening, that you wished your dad wasn't able to hurt you anymore? There isn't really a perfect solution for something like this, but I think you getting out of here for a while would be a good thing. You wouldn't have to be around your dad every day, and maybe it would give him a kick up the ass and make him see how wrong what he's doing really is."

Feeling beleaguered, a little like he's just had the rug pulled out from under him, Stiles sits quietly as he contemplates the offer he has been given, all the points that have been raised. Derek and Melissa disappear into the kitchen to give him the illusion of privacy, and he slumps back into the sofa cushion as his mind races. Could he do it? Could he really leave? He isn't sure. In fact, in that moment he isn't sure of much at all. If he leaves he'll have to deal with Scott's petulance on a more regular basis, no matter what Melissa says about keeping them apart. People will talk, gossiping and spreading rumours, but because that's something he's already used to, it doesn't fall in either the Pro or the Con column. The possibility of not having to hide his relationship with Derek while inside Melissa's house definitely gets filed under the Pros, as does having someone like Melissa looking out for him. Not being able to keep an eye on his dad to make sure he doesn't self-destruct even further is a Con—the fact that he even considers this as a deciding factor annoys Stiles a lot, because he so desperately wants to be past caring for the sheriff. In the end it's the speech he made in Derek's loft earlier in the day that leads him to his decision. His dad is keeping him down, making him feel weak and powerless, and he doesn't want to feel that way anymore. There's really only one choice:

He'll move in with Melissa.

"I'm gonna do it," Stiles says, knowing Derek will hear.

Melissa makes her reappearance a second later, looking hopeful.

"Really?" she asks.

"Really," he confirms, jumping when she rushes over and hugs him tightly.

Derek watches from the doorway with a smile.

"Go pack a bag, OK?" Melissa instructs as she pulls away. "I'll wait."

"I won't be long."

Stiles climbs the stairs two at a time, pushes open his bedroom door, and feels around in the tenebrous space under his bed for the empty luggage that's still there from when his family used to go on holiday every summer. It's been years since the last time. Among a thick layer of dust, old socks and other long-forgotten ephemera, he finds the handle of his large navy-blue suitcase and pulls it out.

The suitcase is just one big compartment, so after tossing it on the bed and unzipping it he starts filling it with all the clothes he wants to take with him. One by one the drawers of his dresser are sorted through until his suitcase is mostly stuffed full, each item of clothing carefully rolled up to squeeze as much inside as he can. There is only a little bit of space left when he finishes rummaging through the bottom drawer, which he fills with his toiletries from the bathroom—toothbrush, shower gel, razors, shaving cream—and the power cable for his laptop. On top of everything he puts the laptop itself, then he zips the suitcase back up and is surprised by the heft of it. Carefully he stands it on the floor, its small wheels squeaking from age and disuse, and—after double-checking that he hasn't missed anything of import—exits the room.

The sound of the door clicking shut carries a sense of finality.

He feels oddly uplifted as he reenters the living room.

"OK, I'm ready."

Derek is at his side in an instant. "I'll carry that for you," he offers, taking the suitcase when he sees how much difficulty Stiles is having with it. He receives a grateful smile for his chivalry.

"Thanks, Sourwolf."

"That's an odd nickname," Melissa comments, bemused.

Stiles hums his agreement. "Yeah, I guess it is. I think it fits, though."

Derek stays silent on the matter.

Grabbing his backpack from beside the coffee table—which still contains all of his school books because he hasn't done any work since bringing it home last Friday—he stops when he sees his phone lying on the wood surface. Picking that up, too, he presses the home button and is surprised to see that it still has power left, the little icon in the top-right corner telling him that the battery is at ninety-eight percent. He wonders aloud how it came to be there, which is when Melissa informs him that she'd gotten his phone back from the sheriff while confronting him that afternoon. It was quickly determined to be unneeded for the investigations into Peter and Kate, so his dad had brought it home several days ago but failed to return it. Melissa had plugged it in to charge while she waited for Stiles to get home. Tucking it in the back pocket of his chinos, Stiles is about to follow Melissa out of the house when a car door slams right outside. A glance out the window reveals that the sheriff is home, his cruiser parked haphazardly in the driveway. The surly expression on his weathered face worsens as he climbs out of the car in his frowsy sheriff's uniform, fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's in hand, and takes in first Melissa's vehicle parked on the curb, and then Derek's.

"Just let me do the talking," Melissa says as she moves into the foyer. Stiles—with Derek sticking close behind him, ever his stalwart protector—tails her as the front door bangs open and his dad steps into the house, wearing an inscrutable expression when he comes face-to-face at his unexpected guests.

"What's going on here?" he questions.

His suspicious gaze lingers the longest on Derek.

"Stiles will be living with me starting today," Melissa asserts, drawing the sheriff's eyes back to her. She juts her chin out. "If you try to fight me on this then I'll have no problem getting Child Protective Services involved, and that will lead to the same conclusion. You'll lose custody of Stiles and, because I'm still listed as his legal guardian should anything happen to you, I'll be officially entrusted with his care. Deputy Parrish will back me up if it comes to that; he's smelled the alcohol on your breath when you were supposed to be working, and he knows something is very wrong. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

The sheriff regards her for a few tense seconds—during which Stiles holds his breath, and Derek's free hand comes to rest reassuringly against his lower back—before shrugging indifferently and telling them go ahead. This uncaring attitude almost leaves Stiles feeling more devastated than any of his interactions with his dad in recent memory, the section of his heart that the man still occupies blackening even further, starting to decay. He thinks he would've preferred it if the sheriff had said at least one word in protest, demanded he stay—things have been bad, sure, but at least the anger his dad had displayed up until now showed some semblance of caring—but he doesn't seem to matter at all to him now. His distress catches Derek's attention, and Stiles honestly expects his dad to burst into flames right where he stands when he sees the rage on Derek's face.

"C'mon, honey, let's go," Melissa ushers.

Derek guides him out, stormy expression still in place.

Before she follows them, Melissa levels the sheriff with a glare of her own.

"Claudia would be disgusted with you," she spits, then slams the door shut.

* * *

As soon as Stiles walks through the front door of the McCall residence, Scott is on him, demanding to know what the hell he's doing there. Melissa is quick to drag him away, and Stiles and Derek stand awkwardly by the stairs as mother and son talk heatedly in the dining room. Stiles wants to know what they're saying to each other, what sort of acrimonious abuse is being launched unjustly at all three of them by Scott, but he doesn't ask Derek to relay anything to him because he knows the talk is intended to be private.

Scott stomps off upstairs a couple of minutes later.

"OK..." Melissa says to herself as she reenters the foyer, looking worn out.

"I'm sorry," Stiles mutters, knowing he's the reason she had to deal with Scott's tantrum.

"Why are you sorry? It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't," Melissa assures, pulling him into a brief hug. She keeps her hands on his shoulders when she pulls back again, making him look her in the eye. "Scott's behaviour is all on him and no one else. You hear me? I don't know what's gotten into him lately but he'll just have to get over it or deal with the consequences. You're staying, and that's that. Now, let's get you settled in, shall we? It's probably been a long day for you." Releasing him, Melissa ascends the stairs and shows Stiles to the guest room she had made up in preparation for this moment. Previously used mostly for storage, the small space is pretty spartan with an old dresser to the left and a twin-size bed opposite the door, the headboard pushed up against the wall. A rickety nightstand is next to it, on top of which is a blue lamp and a stack of well-thumbed paperback books, leftover from years past when Melissa would sleep there to get away from her ex-husband's volatile temper. In the corner are a couple of boxes that escaped the clear-out, half covered with an old flavescent blanket. She picks one of these up and carries it out into the hallway, then gives the second one the same treatment.

"I hope this is alright," she says when she returns, brushing her hands together to rid them of the dust from the boxes. "It was short notice, so if you don't like something you can always change it. I want you to feel welcome while you're here. It must have been a long time since you felt like that..."

Stiles smiles wryly.

"Yeah, I guess," he concedes. He goes quiet and puts his backpack down on the mauve sheets of the bed, then observes as Derek does the same with his suitcase, creating a dip in the old mattress. The silence is broken suddenly by music coming from Scott's room, so loud that it shakes the floor and Derek visibly winces as it assaults his ears. Melissa sees this reaction and marches out of the guest room, and the sound of her angry knocking a second later is just discernible over the din of the music. Stiles hopes for Derek's sake that Scott doesn't keep it up for long—if it hurts Derek's ears enough for him to show it, then Stiles doesn't even want to think about how unbearable it must be for someone actually in the room. Thankfully the music is soon turned down to a more tolerable level, and then Melissa reenters, looking ticked off.

"Is he alright?" Stiles asks.

Melissa dismisses the question. "Don't worry about him. Just focus on you."

"Well, the room is great, seriously," he says with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

She brightens considerably. "I'm happy to hear it."

Derek stays out of it, quietly examining the books on the nightstand.

"I'm afraid I have to get to work soon, so I should probably start getting ready. Will you two be alright here for a while?" Melissa enquires, hugging Stiles again when he nods his assent. "Alright, I'll leave you to it then. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to shoot me a text or call me and I'll see what I can do." After ruffling his growing hair she exits the room, leaving the couple alone.

Shutting the door to further dilute the music from Scott's room, Stiles unzips his suitcase and, moving his laptop out of the way first, begins transferring his clothes into the dresser. Derek waits dutifully on the bed for him to finish, deciding not to crack open one of the books because they are all sappy romance novels, with pairs of half-naked models groping each other on the worn covers. It isn't long at all until Stiles is sliding his suitcase under the bed like he did at home and getting to his feet, where he stops and ponders what he should do next. Similarly uninterested in the books, he opens the top drawer in the nightstand with the intent of putting them in there so they are out of the way, but comes to a halt when he sees the small lone box that sits innocuously at the bottom. It has a Post-it note stuck to it, covering the entire front, so what the box contains isn't immediately apparent. But, after picking it up and reading the short message written on the Post-it in blue ballpoint pen, he chokes on his own spit and drops the box back inside the drawer, slamming it shut again with such force that the whole nightstand nearly falls over.

' _I don't want to hear or see anything. Be safe._ '

Condoms.

Melissa bought him condoms.

He splutters some more, causing Derek to spring up from the bed.

"Stiles?!" the alpha exclaims. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head, Stiles coughs one last time and steps purposefully away from the nightstand. "It's nothing, Sourwolf," he chokes out. "I'm fine. Just swallowed a fly or something."

"Oh." Derek blinks. "I see."

Racing from the room, Stiles heads downstairs to the kitchen and fills a glass with water from the sink. He groans quietly as the cool liquid soothes his irritated throat, drinking in great gulps until the glass is drained and he is nearly out of breath. He can't believe Melissa would buy him condoms, though he supposes he should have expected it to come up at some point. The condoms are a clear gesture of acceptance, and the fact that she must have purchased them before talking to him earlier means that said talk was just a formality. She was never planning on trying to split him and Derek up, not that he was really worried about that.

Setting the glass on the counter, Stiles takes another minute to fully calm himself down before going back upstairs. He reaches the guest room just in time to see Derek throw himself on the bed, the tightness of his features suggesting that he is trying very hard to cover something up.

Stiles puts two and two together.

"Guess you saw them, huh?"

Derek nods.

Sitting delicately on the bed next to him, Stiles allows them to lapse into silence while he thinks of how to proceed. There are issues that continue to plague him from his last traumatic sexual experience, that much is true, and he will need to work through them before anything more can happen. But he is definitely still interested in expanding what he has now with Derek, in sharing physical intimacy on top of emotional. "What do you think?" he asks eventually, a flood of nerves causing his scalp to itch and sweat to break out on his brow. Derek turns to look at him but doesn't say anything to help him out, so he clears his throat and forges ahead. "What do you think about us...y'know." He makes an obscene gesture with his hands, and then feels like a complete idiot when Derek's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Luckily, as stupid as it was, the gesture was apparently good enough to get the message across.

"Is...is that something you'd want?" Derek asks, his throat suddenly tight.

Stiles takes a breath. "Yeah, it is."

After a beat, Derek's wary expression becomes pleased. "OK. But we go at your pace."

"My hero."

"I'm serious. _Your_ pace. We don't need to rush this."

Stiles bites coyly at his bottom lip. "In that case..."

Derek's eyes are drawn to this display. "Hmm?"

"Can you kiss me now?"

With a quiet chuckle, the alpha leans in until their noses almost touch.

"As you wish."


	9. We're Getting Close to Something Big

_\- Saturday, February 12th, 2011 -_

At ten in the morning, Stiles stands on the curb outside Melissa's house and waits for Derek to pick him up. Anticipation for what is to come has his blood pumping faster than normal, makes him jittery. Their first training session as a pack. He has no clue what to expect, what it will entail or whether everyone who is supposed to attend will do so, but he still feels strangely exhilarated. Slowly he is making the guest room his own, taking detours past his old house every day after school and, if the sheriff isn't home, collecting more and more of his belongings. His television was the first thing he recovered. It now sits front and centre on his dresser, in the perfect position for him to watch his favourite films and TV shows while he lounges on the bed. Scott has been behaving himself since his strop on Wednesday, remaining shut up in his bedroom to avoid any and all interaction with the new resident across the hall. The only time they've seen each other so far was when Melissa got home early on Thursday night and insisted that they all sat down together for dinner. Scott ate without saying a word to either of his convives—something that suited Stiles just fine—until Melissa informed him that the money needed to repair Derek's car would be coming out of his wages from the veterinary clinic, and that she wanted him to give Derek a genuine apology.

Scott did not take it well, needless to say, but quickly shut up, somehow taken aback, when Melissa said that if he wanted to act like a child, she would treat him accordingly. He was subsequently sent up to his room without dessert, allowing Stiles and Melissa to finish their macaroni cheese in peace.

There's just one thing that bothers Stiles now:

The added strain he will put on Melissa's finances.

Although she wouldn't ever say it, least of all to him, Stiles knows that money has always been tight for the McCalls, especially since Scott's dad left. It's the reason Scott got his job at the clinic and why Melissa takes on so many shifts at the hospital, nearly working herself to exhaustion. It was late last night that he'd realised the pressure his living there would add, when he had ventured downstairs in search of a glass of water before turning in and found a haggard Melissa poring over her expenses at the dining room table.

Of course, when she finally noticed him she'd subtly slid aside some overdue bills and pretended that everything was fine, but before that Stiles had still heard her mumbling to herself, tired and frustrated, from his position at the bottom of the stairs. Once his thirst was quenched, he'd lain in bed for over an hour until a solution came to him, one that would also give him more independence. He hasn't started searching yet—that will come later, after the impending training session is over—but he'd resolved then to find a part-time job. Melissa will never take money from him, of that Stiles is sure, but he can help her out a little by paying himself for some of the things he needs. This decision has left him elated all morning, a feeling that only gets stronger when he sees the Camaro finally turn the corner and speed down the road to him.

Stiles skips around to the passenger door.

"Today's the big day!" he says by way of greeting as he buckles himself in.

Derek makes a noncommittal noise and starts driving.

"You nervous?"

"A little. I hope it goes well."

"I know it will. You'll do a good job," Stiles assures confidently.

He reaches across the small space between them and pats Derek on the shoulder, then relaxes back into the blissful warmth of his heated seat. They settle into a comfortable silence after that, and Stiles revels in the simple pleasure of spending time with his man. His man... He still gets a rush whenever he remembers that he can call Derek _his_. He finds his eyes constantly drawn to his left, seemingly unable to look away from Derek for more than a few seconds. No one would be able to blame him. How could they, when Derek looks like he does? With his short dark hair styled effortlessly with some kind of wax; his neat beard highlighting a strong jaw and framing his rugged yet pretty features, long eyelashes ghosting across his cheeks every time he blinks; his black leather jacket on his frame, teasingly hiding all the muscle Stiles knows is beneath; his strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel; his tongue sliding out to quickly wet his lips.

Stiles finds himself drawn back in time by the sight of it.

Back to that first afternoon in Melissa's house.

He is struck by a frisson of excitement at the memory of Derek's mouth on his, his lips tingling from its phantom touch. The kiss had started off chaste, just like it was that first time in the preserve. But, without anything to distract them this time around, it didn't stay that way for long.

There were pent-up feelings on both sides that needed to be expressed. Stiles doesn't think he will ever forget the way his body had come to life when he felt Derek's tongue brush questioningly across the seam of his lips, asking permission. His mouth had opened automatically with a gasp, and then his mind—which up until then had been filled with a frenetic stream of _oh God, this is really happening, fuck, fuck, fuck!_ —had shut down as Derek's fingers found their way into his hair and their tongues slid together. The kiss was uncoordinated and a tad sloppy because of Stiles' inexperience, but neither of them cared. Derek tasted better than anything Stiles had experienced before, better than his favourite chocolate, better even than curly fries. He'd followed Derek's lead, and the scrape of Derek's beard against his own smooth face had left him shaking with desire, wondering fleetingly what it would feel like to have those rough hairs scraping across other parts of his body. He had banished the thought as soon as it came, wanting to avoid the panic he knew would follow.

And then, when he'd tilted his head just so and ended up in the perfect angle, he had almost whimpered in pleasure as the kiss deepened, got that little bit more intense. He _did_ whimper when Derek sucked on his tongue, tasting him back, and again when not-quite-human teeth bit gently into his bottom lip. But then Derek had pulled away and brought the kiss to an end. Stiles had chased after him, leaning into his space because he didn't want to stop yet, but the alpha had just smiled affectionately, pecked him on the lips one last time, and said sadly that he should probably get going. Stiles had pouted but understood.

"You alright over there?"

The question snaps Stiles out of his reminiscing. "What?"

Derek glances his way. "You keep fidgeting."

"Oh! Yeah, don't worry about little ol' me. I'm fine, Der Bear."

At the nickname, Derek inhales sharply and tightens his grip around the steering wheel. Concerned, Stiles reaches out again and puts his hand on Derek's arm. "Did I say something wrong?"

Derek shakes his head.

"Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"

"It's just... Laura used to call me that."

"Oh. Do you want me to stop?"

Derek brings the car to idle at a red light and takes advantage of the reprieve to loosen his grip on the wheel, his knuckles returning to their normal colour. Stiles waits patiently, knowing not to push him on a subject that, from personal experience, he knows must still be so laden with pain. He just keeps his hand on Derek's arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth in an unconscious effort to soothe.

When the light turns green and they start moving again, Derek swallows with some difficulty and takes a deep breath. His voice has a distinct rasp to it when he finally speaks: "You don't have to stop calling me that. It's been a while since I let myself think back that far but, if I'm honest, it's actually kind of nice, reminds me of the good times..." He takes Stiles' hand in one of his own and moves them down to rest on his thigh, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives them toward the section of the preserve in which they will meet the rest of the pack, hidden in the trees. Stiles can sense that Derek is thinking deeply about something and leaves him to it. He's happy to let the topic die for now, sagging back into his seat and enjoying the warmth of Derek's hand covering his, the sense of safety it gives him. But then, just as Stiles' mind has begun to wander, Derek opens his mouth and starts telling stories from years past, about Laura's fiery personality and fast quips, her sarcastic nature and the way she used to tease him endlessly throughout their childhood. Stiles listens like a small child being read his favourite bedtime story, wide-eyed and awed. He feels immensely privileged that Derek is allowing him into this part of his life and thinks it's the first time he has heard Derek speak of his family this way—happily, where the focus isn't on the fire that destroyed everything.

There's a light in Derek's eyes that Stiles loves seeing.

"We used to cover for each other when we were older, whenever one of us wanted to sneak out after our curfews," the alpha recalls. "I only did it once or twice—because I was good at basketball I had a lot of people I was friendly with, but I was never really close enough to anyone to want to risk it. But Laura snuck out all the time. There was always some party she wanted to go to, some movie she wanted to see with her friends. She used to bring me back a chocolate bar or something as a thank you."

"She sounds pretty awesome," Stiles opines.

"She was... I think she'd have liked you."

"Really?"

Derek nods to himself, smiling. "Yeah, I'm sure of it, actually. You remind me of her in a lot of ways. Your snark, your sarcasm, your sense of humour, your big heart... They're all a lot like Laura's. I know for sure that she'd have had a lot of fun teasing me about you. You would've been good friends."

"I wish I could've met her," Stiles laments, remembering the few times he had seen her around town. The clearest memory is from when he was nine years old and was at the mall with his mother for the last part of that year's back-to-school shopping. They were in the boys' section of some clothing store and, while his mother was distracted scanning the racks for a pair of jeans in his size, he had heard laughing from a short distance away. Across the aisle was a gaggle of teenage girls, at the centre of which was Laura Hale, who everyone at least knew of back then because of her last name. He didn't know what was so funny—whatever amused them so was out of his line of sight—but, as if sensing his curious gaze, Laura had flipped her long dark-brown hair over one shoulder and turned her head in his direction. She'd winked at him, making him blush—she was an attractive older girl, after all—and then run off with her friends.

Stiles tells this story and learns to his amazement that Laura had been laughing at Derek, who was flirting badly with a girl he'd had a crush on at the time, a girl in his year named Paige. He laughs himself as he imagines that scenario, finding the idea of a fumbling teenage Derek hilarious, but stifles the sound when Derek huffs and reaches over to smack him lightly over the head. "Sorry!" Stiles gasps, wiping at his eyes as he regains his composure. He frets for a second that Derek is genuinely upset or offended, but then the corner of Derek's mouth twitches and he knows that the irritation is just an act.

They share more memories for rest of the journey, until...

"Here we are," Derek says as he pulls the Camaro to a stop in between two other cars, belonging to Lydia and Chris Argent. Hopping out, Stiles counts all the vehicles squashed together in this nook just off the road, the entrance to which is a gap between the trees that he guesses his Jeep could just about pass through. At first he thinks everyone is accounted for but then notes the absence of Scott's bike.

He feels glad for it, frankly.

"Onward!" he commands playfully, pointing the way.

Derek rolls his eyes.

Leaving his jacket in the Camaro, Derek follows the fresh footprints that are in the dirt, even though, because he was the one who had scouted the preserve for the ideal training ground in the first place, he already knows where they are headed—a large clearing, far away from the trails frequented by ordinary people out for a jog, with steep slopes all around and a gargantuan toppled tree off to one side. There is almost no chance that they will be stumbled upon but, should luck not be on their side, they have the senses of three werewolves to warn them well ahead of time. The walk takes about ten minutes. The knowledge that he is now a part of something greater than himself fills Stiles with exuberance, so much so that he picks up his pace until he starts power-walking. Derek keeps up with him without any trouble and doesn't comment on this burst of energy. Although he would never say it and is obviously doing his best to conceal it, Stiles gets the impression that he isn't the only one looking forward to what will happen once they reach the others. Soon, muffled talking reaches his ears, and then the trees part to reveal two groups of people: Allison, Lydia, Erica and Boyd stand talking amongst themselves, as do Chris, Victoria and Gerard. As Stiles had suspected, Scott is nowhere to be found, probably too busy sulking by himself about his 'unjust' punishments.

Both conversations come to an end when Derek and Stiles enter the clearing.

Erica, with Boyd trailing calmly after her, bounds over to Stiles and hugs him in greeting, while Derek gathers the betas together and explains to them everything they will be doing over the course of the next two hours. While the wolves prepare themselves, everybody else climbs up and sits atop the toppled tree to observe, with a gap forming unconsciously between teenagers and adults. They all stay quiet so they can hear everything perfectly as Derek runs through the concept of anchors. Lydia, apparently thinking it unnecessary to listen because she'd already heard all of this earlier in the week, examines her nails while he speaks.

"It's pretty simple, really," Derek briefs, arms crossed over his chest. "You just have to find something that will keep you in touch with your humanity whenever you feel your wolf taking over. It can be anything—an emotion, a person, a memory. The only thing that matters is that it works for you."

Erica whispers in Stiles' ear, "He looks hot today, right?"

"What? Who does?"

"Derek, obviously! He looks hot today. I mean, just look at those biceps!"

"Uhh..."

Said alpha glances in their direction and fights a smile when he sees Stiles' flustered expression. He shakes his head and then returns his attention to the betas, who snicker into their hands.

Stiles tries to ignore Erica when, in hushed tones, she keeps talking lasciviously about every part of Derek's body, fast turning his face the colour of beetroot. He almost tells her to stop because her words are still loud enough to be picked up by werewolf ears, but he can't help but secretly agree with everything she says. Boyd, clearly not the jealous type and knowing exactly what Erica is doing, doesn't react to any of her observations. All he does is tap her on the shoulder when the training properly commences. Once they have thought of an anchor, Derek puts Lydia and Allison through a series of increasingly strenuous physical trials designed to test their choices. If one of them slips up and loses control for even a second, they have to think of something else and start over from the beginning. Allison reaches the third trial before she has trouble, whereas, likely because she was made aware of the concept of anchors days ago and has since researched it scrupulously, Lydia manages to make it all the way to the fifth before cracks begin to show in her control.

Later, when the trials end and the betas move on to learning basic combat, Stiles once again finds his eyes drawn repeatedly to Derek, no matter what else is happening. Erica was definitely right; Derek looks smoking hot, though this isn't a surprise. He always looks hot. This is just the first time Stiles has seen this much tanned skin since he'd admitted his feelings. The grey tank top Derek wears is obscenely tight, stretching across his large pectorals with pebbled nipples visible through the thin fabric.

He may as well be shirtless.

The way the muscles of Derek's arms bulge as he effortlessly dodges one of Allison's advances and throws her across the clearing has Stiles thinking of what else that strength could accomplish. After looking around to make sure that no one is paying him any attention, he allows himself to imagine. Since Peter, he hasn't let himself think about sex for a more than a few seconds at a time, because it always leads to flashbacks of that horrible night. He risks it now, though, ogling as Derek weaves gracefully between the betas, his fluid movements a contradiction to a body that should be ponderous. As Stiles was expecting, there is the briefest flash of a malevolent grin and rough hands in places they have no business being. But, instead of shying away from it like he has done every time before, Stiles refuses to let the panic win.

He pushes through it and demanding touches become gentle. Pain becomes pleasure as the scene changes from the dirty ground of the parking structure to the king-size bed in Derek's loft. Coldness and fear turns into warmth and safety as the last trace of Peter is replaced by Derek, angry red eyes becoming loving.

It won't be that easy in reality, Stiles knows. But he doesn't care.

He wants.

So badly, he wants.

And by hell or high water he'll get there.

Far too soon, Stiles is awoken from his daydreaming by a booming voice.

"Alright, that's enough!" Derek shouts above the cacophony of growling and fisticuffs, calling the training session to an end after he sees Chris gesturing at his watch. Lydia and Allison immediately cease their efforts to break through each other's guards, their beta forms receding, while the onlookers slide down to the ground from the tree trunk. Stiles is the only one who stays where he is, frowning and wondering how the time has passed so quickly. He must have spent longer than he thought fantasising about Derek, conjuring up images that, when said alpha speaks again, he casts aside to revisit at a later time: "I have to say I'm impressed," Derek says. "You both did better than I thought you would, so you should be proud of yourselves. Now, next Friday is the full moon. It's come around sooner than I would've liked, but there's nothing we can do about that. To prepare for it, I want you to remember everything you learned here today about anchors and practise as much as you can during the week. If at any point you don't think you can keep a handle on your wolves, I want you to call me or find Stiles as soon as possible and we'll help you from there. But I'm honestly not too worried about that. After school on Friday, you both need to be at my loft before dark so Chris and I can get you restrained. You'll be there all night, so Lydia, you'll need to come up with a cover story to tell your parents."

She shoots him a look as if to say, "Well, _duh_."

A few minutes later, once Lydia and Allison have been dismissed, everyone but Derek and Stiles leaves for their cars, Chris' praise for his daughter carrying back to them on the breeze. Stiles finally hops down from the tree and approaches Derek, an odd feeling of anticipation surging through his body when the alpha turns to him with an expectant eyebrow raised. He walks until he gets close enough to smell the arousing musk of Derek's sweat, to see where the grey material of his tank top is stained dark across his chest, back and underarms, and then moves closer still, powerless to resist the pull he feels in his gut.

"You ready to go, too?" he asks once there is a single foot between them.

"Yeah, I guess," Derek responds.

As they set off for the Camaro, Stiles finds himself sticking so close to Derek's side that their hands brush against each other with every step. "So...what're your plans for the day?"

"I don't really have any."

"None?"

"Just a shower, I suppose. I need one."

"I guess," Stiles says, then adds quietly, "I'm not complaining..."

Derek grins, tickled. "Oh, really? Does it do something for you, me being like this?"

"You could say that."

"Interesting..." Derek smirks, humming as he theatrically taps his right index finger against his chin. Stiles rolls his eyes at him but is unable to fight the matching smile that forms on his lips, very much enjoying Derek's playful side. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Could come in handy."

"Whatever you say, big guy."

Ten minutes later, the Camaro comes into view, by itself now. Chris Argent leans casually against it. "There you are," he says, pushing away from the car as Derek and Stiles emerge from the trees. "I wanted to talk to you both in private before I headed home, about something that's been worrying me for a while." His face is tight and his intense blue eyes are serious. "It's about Scott... Something needs to be done about him before it's too late. I know you've had the same concerns, Derek, and I feel we're running out of time."

"What're you talking about?" Stiles demands.

"I'm talking about the danger of Scott becoming an omega," Chris says matter-of-factly. "I have my suspicions about why it didn't happen while Peter was still around, but that doesn't matter anymore. _You_ are the alpha now, Derek, and as the only alpha in this region that means Scott is your responsibility. You're a good man, so I don't like to put you in this position, but you need to make Scott fall in line before it's too late. If you can't make him submit to you, then without a pack to temper his sanity, his behaviour will just get worse and worse until he does something there's no coming back from. If that happens... As much as I don't want to, I'll have to do my job and stop him, by any means necessary." He lets his warning hang ominously in the air as the gravity of the situation registers to Derek and Stiles, the latter's face contorting in horror. "Like I said, time is of the essence here. I'll give you a week. I truly hope you succeed."

With that, Chris turns and walks away.


	10. It's for Your Own Good

_\- Sunday, February 13th, 2011 -_

Derek's phone blares from beneath his pillow at eight in the morning, telling him it's time he get up. He really doesn't want to. The night was long and fitful, spent getting only a few minutes of rest at a time. Chris Argent's warning kept ringing in his ears, reminding him of the quandary with which he has been burdened. He'd given up on sleep at around 2 a.m. and had just lain there wide awake, tracking the shadows cast by the moon as they travelled slowly with each passing hour across the loft's cold concrete floor. He had mixed feelings about what he should do, feelings it had taken an age to sort through. On one hand, Derek despises Scott with every fibre of his being, thinks everybody's lives would be greatly improved without the bilious beta around to sully them. He has watched from the sidelines as Scott's treatment of Stiles got progressively worse. Even before he and Stiles became what they are now, he thought Scott's attitude was unjust and the animalistic side of him wanted to rip the boy to shreds every time he dared open his big mouth. Now, the idea of having Scott in his pack, of having to be around each other for hours at a time each week, makes his skin crawl. But, despite what he feels are very good arguments for the opposite, he doesn't think it would be right if Scott were killed, not when he can do something to prevent it.

With a sigh Derek rolls his tired body out of bed and takes a minute to stretch. He raises his arms high and twists his torso from side to side to work out the kinks that developed from lying for so long in one position, groaning as his joints pop and his muscles burn pleasantly. Then, feeling less like death, he pads into the bathroom to wash up, scratching absentmindedly across his bare stomach as he goes.

The bathroom has already come a long way.

Already Derek has running water, a working boiler, and a new shower, toilet and sink. He stands in front of the latter and looks at his reflection in the mirror he'd screwed into the brick wall above it late last night. His eyes are bloodshot with huge bags beneath them, obvious signs of how sleep-deprived he is, but there's nothing he can do about that now. Shaking his head, Derek moves over to the shower and switches it on. It sputters to life, cold water cascading out of the shower head to hammer against the basin. Holding his hand beneath the spray, he waits for the water to heat up to the right temperature and, when steam is finally billowing out a short while later, kicks off his black boxer-briefs and steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The hot water hitting his shoulders feels blessedly rejuvenating, like a gentle massage. He tilts his head back to wet his hair and then simply stands there, stock-still with his eyes closed.

The shower is a vast improvement over what he'd had to go through to wash when he was squatting at his old house. He doesn't know how he managed then and is thankful now that he no longer has to. Life's simple pleasures, he thinks as he blinks open his eyes, his few moments of indulgence over. Grabbing the shower gel he keeps in the shower caddy hung on a hook on the wall, he soaps up his newly energised body quickly and efficiently, then works the unscented shampoo he favours into his dark hair. The water carries the combined lather down the drain and leaves him feeling squeaky clean.

He grabs the only towel he owns on his way out.

Rubbing it over his head, Derek shuffles back into the main room and bends down to search in his duffel bag for a fresh set of clothes. He finds to his dismay that he only has one clean pair of underwear left and adds doing laundry to his already-overlong mental To Do list, between buying himself a dresser and talking more with Stiles about Scott. As he starts pulling the underwear on, the sound of a car engine reaches his ears, getting closer and closer until it idles in the old parking lot right outside the building. He isn't expecting anybody, and there's never anyone in this part of town—maybe the occasional homeless person in search of temporary refuge from the elements, but no one who'd own a car. He pauses with his underwear halfway up his legs as car doors slam and two people talk in hushed tones, one male and the other female. At first, the voices are too quiet and far away for him to determine whether or not he recognises them. But, as the two visitors move up through the floors below him via the stairs and the talking gets clearer, he puts a face to the louder of the two:

Erica.

Which means the male voice probably belongs to Boyd.

Derek wonders what the hell they could want.

Especially this early.

Hurriedly he yanks his underwear up the rest of the way, followed by a pair of jeans, and is just pulling an old black Henley over his head when the two teenagers arrive at the door to his loft. One of them knocks and so, wearing a half confused, half annoyed frown, Derek goes to answer.

Grabbing the handle, he slides the door open and is met with Erica's determinedly hopeful face, the gleam in her eyes making him even more suspicious. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail and she sports a glittery white sweater paired with dark-brown corduroy trousers. Boyd stands just behind her in a plain sky-blue T-shirt and black jeans, hands thrust in the pockets, but unlike his girlfriend his face is expressionless, giving nothing away. "What are you two doing here?" Derek asks, keeping his hand on the door to bar them from entering. He doesn't want to let them in until he knows exactly what they're after.

"We wanted to talk to you about something," Erica replies.

"I'm listening."

"Can we come in first?"

With a sigh, Derek grudgingly gestures for them to move past him and feels marginally better when he receives an apologetic smile from Boyd. Once the door is shut, he turns back to the room to find that Erica has already made herself at home. She sits casually on the sofa with one leg crossed over the other, like they are old friends and she isn't intruding in a practical stranger's home at an impolite hour. Derek glowers at her, but all he gets in return is an unrepentant smirk. Boyd takes a seat next to Erica and looks around inquisitively, nodding what Derek hopes is his approval a few seconds later. When neither one of his unexpected guests seems to want to offer up an explanation of their own accord, Derek huffs impatiently and moves to stand in front of them, arms crossed over his chest as he stares sternly down at them. "What do you want?" he demands, a little testily because he doesn't like having his privacy disturbed without notice.

"We were wondering..." Erica starts, looking unsure of herself now.

Derek keeps pressing her. "Yes?"

"We want you to turn us."

"You...what?"

That wasn't what Derek had been expecting. At all.

He loses all traces of annoyance, shock taking over as his eyes become round and his arms fall to his sides. When he realises he is quite literally gaping, Derek coughs awkwardly and wrestles back control of his face, then takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table, facing Erica and Boyd. "Have you thought this through?" he asks warily, leaning his elbows on his knees. "It's not a walk in the park."

"We know that already. Lydia almost killed us, remember?" Erica points out, making a face like she thinks Derek is stupid. "Of course we've thought it through. Ever since we found about you guys earlier this week it's been all I can think about. We're not asking you this lightly. I'm not sure how much you know, but I'm epileptic. Have been for years now. It's almost completely debilitating," she looks down, revealing how sensitive a subject this is for her, "to the point where I'm incapacitated for days after each seizure. I'm hardly allowed to do anything because of it. I can't even take my stupid driver's test because it's, and I quote, 'too dangerous'. I don't want to spend the rest of my life like that. I want to learn to drive. I want to not be terrified of seizing in public and being humiliated, of bastards spreading videos of me pissing myself because I lose control of my bladder and then laughing about it to my face. So yeah, I want you to turn me. I know being a werewolf won't be easy at first, and there's obviously a lot about all of this that I don't know yet, pack dynamics or whatever. But it would cure me and after a while, as far as anyone else knew, I would be a normal teenager, doing normal teenager-y things. And no one could give me shit again." Her grin is almost disturbing. "I know you wouldn't let me hurt anyone, like you didn't let Lydia hurt us."

Derek is a little dazed by everything he has just been told, isn't sure how to respond. What can he do to attenuate the sadness and anger Erica is feeling, brought on by years of being spurned by her peers? Nothing, that's what. He lacks the skills for something like this, so he lets Boyd do the work for him. The right decision, because the unspeaking boy wrapping an arm around her is all it takes, likely because it's Boyd doing the embracing. Derek seriously doubts his own arm would've had the same effect—it seems like Stiles is the only person with whom he can communicate effectively in situations such as this. He wonders how long it will take him to cultivate that ease with other people, how steep a learning curve he will have to scale.

Pretty damn steep, probably.

Bully for him.

"I'm good," Erica says after a minute, smiling gratefully at Boyd.

The placid boy takes his arm back.

"What about you, Boyd?" Derek asks. "What are your reasons for wanting this?"

"I'm lonely," Boyd responds, his face displaying no emotion but his voice giving away how sad this really makes him. Derek finds himself empathising as he listens, thinking back to the time he'd spent in New York without anyone to really talk to—not that he'd wanted to talk back then, anyway. "I don't have any friends, besides Erica and maybe now you and Stiles. Never have. I'm not close with my family, either. I just think it would be nice, y'know? To be a part of something like this."

"You can still be in the pack while human, you know. Like Stiles."

"I figured. But still."

Derek cocks his head to the side. "But you want to be a werewolf anyway."

"Yes."

"I'm not sure..." Derek says honestly, rising to his feet to begin pacing back and forth. He catches sight of Erica and Boyd's disappointed expressions and explains further. "This decision doesn't just affect me, it affects everyone in the pack—Stiles, Allison, Lydia...even Melissa and all the other parents. So I'll need to get their input before I decide one way or the other. The bite is a gift. My mom taught me that it's never something that should be given lightly. She only ever turned one person the whole time she was my alpha, and even then it was only because they would've died otherwise. Allison and Lydia are unusual cases. They were turned against their will, before they were made aware of absolutely everything it would entail so they could make an informed decision. I don't think they would've come to me if they'd had a choice, and I wouldn't have said yes unless they gave me a very good reason. Your reasons are good, I think. Good enough. But I'm still not going to say yes today. I need time to think. That's the best answer I can give you for now."

Erica and Boyd take this better than Derek thought they would.

Erica is obviously disappointed—Boyd hides it better—but, even though this is something they desperately want, neither teenager protests or pushes him for more. To Derek this shows a patience he thinks would benefit the pack, especially if he manages to bring Scott into the fold. Erica and Boyd take their leave a few minutes later, following more assurances that they are welcome in the pack even if the answer is no. After the door closes, Derek listens to the sound of the car they came in fade into nothing as they drive away, then slips on his shoes and leather jacket in preparation for leaving the loft himself.

He has work to do.

* * *

Just before six in the evening, Derek sits in the Camaro with Stiles in the passenger seat. The boy had shown up at the loft at a little past noon, after he'd finished filling out applications for any shop in town that was looking for part-time help. Derek was halfway through skimming the first wall in what will soon become his kitchen and, when Stiles had offered it, was glad to have assistance. As they worked together to achieve smooth spackling, Derek had brought up the sensitive subject of Scott and relayed the conclusion he'd come to that morning, which is what lead them to where they are now—parked in a shadowy corner of the clinic's small back parking lot, waiting for Scott to finish up his current shift so they can, in effect, ambush him. It's not the subtlest or most anodyne of plans, Derek knows, but neither he nor Stiles think Scott will respond to anything less and they both want to get this confrontation over with sooner rather than later. The clock on the dashboard creeps slowly closer to 6:00 p.m., the time at which Scott's shift should end. Around a large mouthful of his sandwich—they'd stopped off at Subway on the way there, where Derek bought them a bacon and chicken melt to share—Stiles comments to Derek's amusement that it's almost like they are on a stakeout, waiting to see evidence of shady dealings so they can catch their suspect red-handed.

"I guess you could look it that way," Derek responds, eyes locked on the door that serves as the back entrance to the clinic. Scott's bike is locked up tight next to it. "I doubt, or hope, that this'll be as exciting, though." He glances at Stiles and, when he sees the large smear of mayonnaise on the boy's chin, pulls out a napkin from the plastic bag the sandwich came in and holds it out.

"Here, you might want to use this."

Stiles takes it gratefully and wipes his chin clean. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

"Can you hear anything?"

Derek shakes his head, frowning, as Stiles shoves the last piece of his dinner in his mouth and chews obnoxiously. "No. It seems that Deaton has upped his precautions against werewolves. He probably did it after we broke in looking for an antidote," he surmises, taking the sandwich wrapper from Stiles and balling it up. It gets shoved inside the plastic Subway bag and tossed into the backseat to be disposed of later. "Not all of us are friendly, as I'm sure Peter helped you figure out, so I can't hear what's going on inside and probably couldn't enter without permission either. A smart move, really. You never know."

"True. How do you think Scott will react to this?" Stiles asks.

"You tell me. You know him better than I do."

"Not anymore, I don't. He's completely different to how he used to be."

"You mean he's a dick?"

Stiles chuckles. "To put it bluntly."

"Hopefully he'll calm down again soon."

"Hopefully... Things'll never be like they were, though."

The conversation drops there and, as Stiles fiddles with his phone, Derek returns to staring at the back entrance. The clock reads 18:01, so Scott should come out any moment now, unsuspecting of what he's walking into. It takes three more minutes until that happens, and Derek is just unbuckling his seatbelt when he sees a second boy exit the building with an expensive-looking camera slung around his neck. From this distance Derek can only make out his most prominent features—he has short brown hair and a slim build, comes to about the same height as Scott, and his skin looks paler than Stiles' under the bright light that shines from above the back door to the clinic. An animal carrier dangles from his right hand, presumably containing a cat or some other small pet, and the way he converses easily with Scott as Scott unlocks his bike speaks of a relationship deeper than just a vet's assistant and a stranger bringing in their pet to be checked over. A friend from school, perhaps. A quick look to his right tells Derek that Stiles is just as baffled as he is.

Not caring about this tiny kink in their plan, Derek shoves open his door and gets out, drawing the attention of both Scott and his mysterious new friend. Stiles gets out after him, and together they approach the other pair. Scott's eyes turn hard and angry as soon as they land on Derek, his expression indignant, whereas the strange boy just looks between the three of them worriedly, his grip tightening around the animal carrier and his other hand coming up to clutch at his camera as if he is afraid of Derek purloining it from him.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Scott demands.

"We just want to talk," Derek offers.

"Not interested. Get lost."

"As much as I would like to, I can't do that."

Still looking warily at Derek, the strange boy takes a step back in an attempt to distance himself from the situation, an action that has the opposite effect. Derek stares at him and crosses his arms, showing off his impressive muscles. The boy gulps nervously and takes another step back.

"Scott, who are these people?" he asks, shaking.

"This doesn't concern you. Leave!" Derek commands before Scott can reply. The alpha wolf inside is in no mood to play around, not after Scott's continued rudeness and disrespect, and as a result he barely prevents his eyes from flashing red. His top lip still curls back in a snarl, however, one that would send even the deadliest of predators running for the hills. The nameless boy doesn't fare any better—he shoots Scott a quick glance, the spark in his blue eyes betraying a fear for his own safety instead of Scott's, and then hightails it. The animal carrier swings wildly by his side as he runs, and Derek gets the distinct whiff of cat before it fades away again, evaporated by the cool, gentle breeze that ruffles his dark hair and tries in vain to penetrate the protection of his leather jacket. Scott yells after his friend—who is apparently named Matt—but the other boy doesn't stop, not until he reaches the only car Derek remembers seeing in the clinic's front lot and throws himself inside. Matt is gone twenty seconds later and, without their interloper, Derek turns his attention once more to Scott, who lours back at him with a hint of gold in his irises. Derek, confident that he can handle whatever Scott throws at him, is undeterred: "Now, back to business. We need to talk to you about what will happen if you don't stop resisting me and accept the place I'm offering you in my pack."

"I don't have time for this crap," Scott snarls. "Just leave me alone."

He tries to barrel past Derek to his bike.

Not a good move.

Fisting his hand in the front of Scott's shirt to stop him from escaping, Derek crowds the infuriating beta roughly backward until he has him immured against the wall. Scott attempts to break free, but to Derek these attempts are no more effective than if Scott were a fly trying to find its way out of a sealed glass jar. He is faintly aware of Stiles hovering uncertainly a couple of feet away but doesn't take his eyes off of his captive, who continues to squirm against him and claws at the arm he holds implacably across his neck. There is something missing behind Scott's eyes, a viciousness to his actions that speaks of a lack of awareness. Derek knows he has pushed the teenager over the edge of his ever-dwindling control.

"Stop. Fighting!" Derek roars, infusing his voice with every inch of his alpha authority. Scott fights for another few seconds before seeming to give up, his body going limp, though a barely audible growl comes from deep in his heaving chest. Derek grabs Scott's chin and jerks his head up until wild eyes meet red ones, then lets go but keeps his arm in place. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

An almost imperceptible nod.

"OK. Now listen good, because I won't give you this chance again," Derek says around his fangs. "If you don't accept your place in my pack, you _will_ die. And I won't be the one to kill you. You must have noticed it, how you're losing yourself more and more every day to the wolf? Even you can't be that dense." Shame and self-disgust flit across Scott's features, giving Derek his answer. "That won't stop until you submit to me. A werewolf needs a pack; without one he'll lose his mind entirely, become feral. A lost cause, that's what you'll be, probably soon, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Your behaviour has also caught Chris' attention, and he gave me a warning after the training session you couldn't be bothered to come to yesterday morning: either I make you shape up and integrate yourself into my pack so you have those bonds to keep you grounded, or he takes care of you instead. D'you know what that means?"

Another nod, during which Scott's scared human features resurface.

"Good," Derek says.

He steps back, releasing the boy.

"I'm not the monster you seem to think I am. I'm not my uncle. The choice is still yours, and I can tell you're not ready to make it now. You have a few days to think over what I've just told you, and on Friday I expect you to be at my loft for the full moon. Chris will be there, too, to help with Lydia and Allison, but if you submit to me and take your place, he won't hurt you and we can try to move on from everything you've done. This can be a good thing if you let it be. If you don't show up, then Chris will kill you before you become an omega, and I'll let him. I hope for the sakes of Allison and your mom that you make the right choice."

Leaving Scott slumped against the wall, Derek turns on his heel and walks back to the Camaro. Stiles spends an extra second looking sadly at his quondam friend before following, his expression uneasy as he straps himself back into the passenger seat. "You OK?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, I guess," Stiles replies softly.

"You sure?"

"Mmm... I just know I'm gonna worry all week."

"I understand. There's nothing we can do now, though."

Stiles releases a breath. "So, what's next?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, I am," Stiles says with a mischievous grin.

Derek regards him curiously. "Oh?"

"Yup. Wanna make out?"


	11. Kickstarting the Recovery

_\- Monday, February 14th, 2011 -_

The large stuffed wolf, with bright green eyes and fur the same colour as Derek's hair, sits on its haunches in the middle of the McCalls' coffee table, the Valentine's Day gift that Stiles—after much, _much_ deliberation—had bought for Derek. He'd had a shock when he walked into school that morning and saw all the decorations plastered about, fuchsia hearts and winged cherubs with tiny bows and arrows in their chubby hands. In previous years Stiles had stubbornly paid the holiday as little mind as possible. He'd never had any reason not to, had no one with whom he could spend it. This year, though, he'd realised with his heart beating a mile a minute that maybe he did, and his head was filled with endless questions as he sat in his first class: Would Derek get him anything? Should he get Derek something? Were they at that stage in their relationship yet? Would Derek even _want_ anything if they were? Stiles didn't think Derek seemed the type to care, but appearances can be deceiving. After all, when they'd officially met a couple of months ago Stiles never would've guessed that Derek was capable of being as kind and understanding as he has been since they got closer. Then, at lunch, Lydia had plopped herself down in the chair opposite his in the cafeteria and made it her business to pry. She'd expertly wheedled his concerns out of him, before telling him he was a moron.

He should just go for it, she said.

And if Derek didn't like whatever he got him, then screw him.

That was how Stiles got to where he is now, thirty dollars poorer and staring into the wolf's green eyes, second-guessing his choice. He was so sure as he'd stood in line to pay that Derek would find the wolf funny, but what if he thought wrong? Maybe Derek will hate it, be offended by it. The last thing Stiles wants is to put him in a position where he feels he has to lie to spare his feelings.

Keeping his mind as empty as he can to avoid more doubts, Stiles hops into his Jeep and drives across town to Derek's loft. He finds the lot outside empty—Derek is presumably elsewhere, maybe getting more things for the ongoing renovations within—so after parking he fumbles in the glove compartment for a scrap piece of paper and a pen and, with the wolf tucked under his arm, marches into the insalubrious building. He is still a little distrustful of the elevator, but ever since his first trip with Derek hadn't ended with them being flattened into pancakes, his willingness to make use of the contraption has slowly been increasing. He feels only mildly perturbed now as he steps inside the cab and waits patiently for it to rattle its way up to the top floor. Derek's door is closed but unlocked when Stiles arrives outside it—does it even _have_ a lock, he wonders—so he enters straight away, hoping that Derek won't be angry he let himself in.

As he thought, Derek is nowhere to be found.

Walking across the room to the immaculately made bed, Stiles places the stuffed wolf on top of one of the pillows, a place where it will be unmissable. On the scrap paper he tries to write a short note to go with it but nothing good comes. He messily crosses out several lines of inelegantly worded text before settling on something short and sweet. The final message apprises Derek of what the wolf is for, assures him that he shouldn't feel pressured to get him something in return if he doesn't want to, and that Stiles won't be hurt if he doesn't want to keep it. After reading the note a couple more times to make absolutely certain it will do, Stiles folds the paper in half and tucks it beneath one of the stuffed wolf's paws, along with the receipt.

He hopes the latter won't be needed.

* * *

Later that evening, Stiles sits in the living room of Melissa's house with one of his favourite sitcoms playing quietly in the background. He checks his phone periodically, but repeatedly he sees nothing but his lock screen wallpaper. Though he doesn't want to be, Stiles is troubled, feels insecure. He hasn't heard from Derek all day, and the idea that his gift might be the reason niggles at him, manifests as an annoying voice in the back of his mind that gets louder as time wears on. It drowns out the rational part of his brain, which reasons that Derek has probably just been busy, maybe hasn't even been home yet. He can't concentrate for long on the events playing out on the television, and soon he's forced to give up and switch it off in favour of just sitting there and drowning in his thoughts. They don't make for good company and eventually, after mentally giving himself a pep talk, Stiles picks up his phone to get in touch with Derek first. Of course, the moment he decides to be proactive is the moment he finally receives the text he'd wanted all afternoon:

_You at home?_

Stiles types out a quick affirmative and waits.

A response comes quickly:

_Getting food. Any preference?_

Once Derek has been informed of the importance of curly fries, Stiles lays his phone on the coffee table and waits. He doesn't have to sit there for too long, as just fifteen minutes later he hears the familiar rumble of the Camaro outside, and then Derek is letting himself in the front door with a large plastic bag in hand. Stiles' stomach growls audibly when the smell of what's held within reaches his nose.

"Hey," he greets as he stands, smiling shyly.

Derek echoes the sentiment.

Moving into the kitchen, Derek puts the bag on the counter and, taking the two plates Stiles hands him, dishes out all the food. It doesn't escape Stiles' notice that his plate ends up piled with considerably more curly fries than Derek's, an observation that makes him grin to himself while Derek's back is turned. Once everything is ready, they grab their respective meals and condiments from the fridge and head back into the living room. Derek takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the sofa, then takes a seat next to Stiles, who has already gotten stuck in to his late dinner. "So..." Derek says, unable to prevent himself from chuckling when his young companion stops eating and looks up at him with an impressive amount of curly fries hanging out of his mouth. It's a ridiculous sight. "You got me a stuffed wolf, huh?"

"Uhh...yeah?" Stiles swallows. "Did you... Didn't you like it?"

"I might've found it amusing."

"Oh. Well, good."

"I hope this is enough to reciprocate."

Stiles frowns confusedly, so Derek elaborates:

"This, the food and stuff. I wasn't sure if you'd want something more..."

With a shake of his head, Stiles curbs Derek's worry. "No, this is great!" he effuses, blathering on in a seemingly endless stream that the wolf has trouble keeping up with. He continues stuffing curly fries in his mouth as he talks, inadvertently spraying small flecks of warm potato across the carpet that make Derek scrunch up his nose in distaste. Stiles doesn't notice. "I've never thought of you as someone who'd be comfortable making grand gestures or PDA or whatever, and I love spending time alone with you anyway. So yeah, I think this is perfect. To be honest, I don't think I'd be comfortable with gestures like that either. Fancy dinners and expensive gifts aren't really for me, especially not now, when I have so many eyes on me." His tone becomes briefly sprinkled with annoyance but then returns to normal. "I'm happy just knowing you care enough to do this. Thrilled, even. I wasn't sure we would do anything at all since we haven't been in this for long. When I remembered what day it was I thought about just ignoring it, but then Lydia talked me into buying you something. I was pretty nervous about it but I'm glad I listened to her now."

"Me, too," Derek offers.

They grin at each other like idiots then return to their food.

* * *

With their stomachs fit to burst, Stiles and Derek migrate up to the guest bedroom and sit next to each other at the head of the bed, propped up against the pillows. Stiles' head rests on Derek's shoulder, his breathing relaxed and slow, as an episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ plays on the TV. It's been a long time since he has watched the series and, as a result, when he'd started from the beginning again a few months ago everything felt new to him, all the twists and turns shocking and exciting him as much as they must have the first time he witnessed them. Derek hadn't watched the series at all but said he didn't mind jumping in near the end of the penultimate season, with Stiles garrulously running through all he knows of the characters' histories so that he isn't completely lost. All is calm until halfway through the episode.

When Spike enters the Summers' bathroom right as Buffy is drawing herself a bath, Stiles feels a sense of unease. He doesn't immediately know why this feeling comes over him, but as the scene progresses he recalls where it leads and his heart starts beating faster and breath seems harder to draw. Derek registers that something is wrong and looks at him, apprehensive, but Stiles just shakes his head and tries to soldier on. He holds up for all of ten seconds, and then Spike tries to force himself on Buffy.

Stiles has to turn off the TV.

His hand shakes as he drops the television remote back to the bed.

Derek's eyes are sympathetic. "Stiles?"

"I forgot about that scene..." said boy mumbles.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah..." Stiles breathes. He twists his fingers together in his lap in an attempt to expel some of the anxiety that courses through his system, a sensation he knows well and hates for making him feel weak. Derek's hands cover his before he can work himself up too much, and he releases a slow breath as the adrenaline gradually leaves him, as his heartbeat returns to normal and the tightness in his chest eases off. When he has calmed sufficiently, Stiles smiles fleetingly at Derek, then gets up off the bed and goes across the hall to the bathroom to be alone, embarrassment now taking over. He stands there thinking for a minute, and then he is struck by an epiphany: He shouldn't be embarrassed about this. It was a natural reaction, he tells himself, one Derek understands. Shaking his head at himself, Stiles is filled with cast-iron determination when memories of Peter try again to assault him, to bring him once more under their thrall. He knows what he has to do. Reentering his bedroom, he sits down next to Derek and, feeling Derek's solicitous eyes on him, fills the silence. "I think I'm ready to tell you about...about that night, and what Peter did to me."

"OK," Derek says softly. "Take your time."

"He wanted me to help him find you, track your phone with stuff he'd stolen," Stiles begins, his gaze trained on the now-lifeless TV screen. Everything he says comes out in a rush, like if he stops for even a second he'll clam up, losing nerve he will never regain. "He made all the normal threats and took me to that old-ass car park. I did what he wanted with the hope that he would leave me alone after. But he didn't. Once I told him where Kate was keeping you, he offered me the bite, said he'd rather have me as his beta than Scott. I told him to go to Hell, lied and said I wasn't afraid of him. He didn't react well. Before I knew what was happening I was on the ground and he was on top of me, his claws digging into my ribs."

Stiles' eyes water as he talks.

But he refuses to cry.

"I thought he was going to kill me," he continues, "but then... But then he ripped my pants off and I realised what he was really going to do. I fought him, tried to buck him off, but alpha werewolf versus scrawny teenage boy. You can do the math. He kept rambling. I didn't catch a lot of it—I was too shocked that this was actually happening to me—but I caught some. He was angry and said it was like an eye for eye, like what he was doing to me was some sort of twisted justice for what he thought you'd stolen from him. He flipped me over onto my front and pinned me down so he could start _preparing_ me. I felt so helpless, so fucking violated. I couldn't think, could only lie there. I never want to feel that weak again..." He trails off and laughs humourlessly as he wipes at his eyes, then sobers quickly. "Right as he was about to unzip his pants, I remembered something Lydia said when she asked me to the dance. She gave me wolfsbane and told me to keep it on me at all times. I did. That's what saved me. I chucked it right in his smug face."

Stiles sniffles as he turns his gaze to Derek.

"Then he left, and that was that."

Derek doesn't respond right away.

He is so enraged that his body visibly quakes and his eyes are as cold as stone. When he finally speaks, his voice is equally cold: "I wish I could've killed him more slowly for what he did to you. Getting his throat ripped out was too good a death for him," he seethes, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.

"Yeah..."

Derek snaps himself out of it.

"Thank you for telling me," he says. "I know it can't have been easy."

Stiles hums sombrely. "It wasn't, but I had to tell someone."

"Did it help?"

"Yeah. I can't ever erase it, but it's like this weight's been lifted, y'know?"

"I do. I felt the same after I told Laura about Kate."

Stiles smiles tiredly. "C'mon, we need to lighten the mood a bit."

"How?"

Stiles holds out his hand. "Pull my finger."

* * *

Stiles awakens a few hours later and is for a moment disoriented. He's unsure how he got where he is, lying on his side with Derek's arms wrapped around him from behind. The main light is still on, as is the TV, so when his sleep-addled mind catches up he deduces that he and Derek must have accidentally drifted off sometime after their talk. The TV remote is on the bed right in front of him, so after pressing the Off button he decides that he's far too comfortable to move and wiggles back into the warmth of Derek's embrace. But the soft, rumbling groan his wolf releases when his ass brushes up against something long and hard has him sucking in a sharp breath and his mind racing. With wide eyes, Stiles stares at the wall and processes this new development. His immediate instinct is to move away from the erection pressed against his ass, the position too reminiscent of his time with Peter. But he doesn't. He stays where he is and tells himself that this is completely different. He's with Derek, and Peter is dead and rotting, unable to hurt anyone ever again. He couldn't be safer, and with the weight of Peter's actions lifted from his shoulders, he supposes that now is as good a time as any to start truly moving past what happened. Trying not to jostle him, Stiles glances over his shoulder to check if Derek is still asleep—he is—and, tentatively, pushes his hips back.

This gets Stiles another groan, and then Derek starts moving with him. The alpha unconsciously grinds his clothed erection against Stiles' ass and tightens his arms, sexy little huffing sounds escaping his mouth with every movement. It goes on for a minute or so as Derek slowly wakes up but then, just as Stiles' dick is joining the party, it ends abruptly when Derek realises what's happening and goes rigid.

"Oh God, Stiles... I'm so sorry."

Derek attempts to move away, so Stiles turns around and grabs his arm.

"Don't, Sourwolf. You didn't do anything wrong," he says.

Derek looks unsure. "But-"

"No, just listen. I'm fine, and I want this. I really, _really_ want this."

"But what about Peter? Isn't this a bit...fast?"

"Hey, I'm not saying I wanna have full-on sex," Stiles avows. "You're right; I don't think I could handle that yet." He shuffles around until he's lying on his back, then takes advantage of Derek's distracted state to pull him on top. Derek, his mouth parted in surprise, appears unable to resist as he is moved onto his knees above the teen, hands ending up on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles grins up at him and traces his index finger teasingly along the neck of his shirt, dipping beneath the fabric to just barely make contact with the tanned skin it covers. In a reaction that fascinates Stiles, this simple touch causes Derek's eyes to slip closed and an intense shudder to rack through his entire body. He does it again and grins when Derek shudders a second time. "I meant it when I said I want to move past what he did to me, and part of that is getting physical with you. So we'll take baby steps. I want you, and I don't see a problem with a little dry humping now, do you?"

Stiles parts his legs before Derek can respond, causing the alpha to slip between them and their groins to finally connect. He tips his head back with a moan, satisfied because he finally has some friction where he wants it most, whereas Derek tips his head forward with his eyes clenched shut and releases a harsh breath across Stiles' exposed neck. For a few blessed moments they grind against each other, both of them caught up in the pleasurable stimulation, but then, when Stiles curls his legs around the backs of Derek's thighs and tries to coax him into moving with more force, Derek becomes inexorably still.

"What's wrong?" Stiles gasps, already breathless.

The wolf lifts his head but doesn't speak.

When he cracks open his eyes, they shine alpha-red.

"Der? Speak to me."

"I... I don't want to lose control."

Stiles frowns and cups his hand around the left side of Derek's bearded jaw, an intimate gesture. "Why are you scared? You've never been scared of that before now, right?"

"No... Not until recently."

"What changed?"

"I'm an alpha now," Derek says, breaking eye contact and staring instead down at Stiles' chest. His fangs create a lisp that Stiles definitely doesn't find cute. Not at all. "That comes with more powerful instincts, remember? And then there's the fact that you're my mate. All of that's made it hard to keep control when..." Derek trails off, unable to go into more detail as his cheeks and ears turn red, too.

"You lose control when..." Stiles echoes.

It takes him a second to get it.

And then:

"Oh! When you...yeah. OK, gotcha."

Derek keeps his eyes averted out of embarrassment.

That just won't do.

"Tell me about it," Stiles requests, hoping to recharge the sexual atmosphere that has fast been dissipating because of Derek's hesitation. Now that something is finally happening he doesn't want to stop, so he urges his wolf to look at him again with a finger beneath his chin and, when Derek just seems confused, goes on with a cheeky grin. Once he starts he can't stop, just looks up into conflagrant eyes that soon turn lustful: "When you jerk off—which, by the way, you'll be doing for me sometime soon, because that sounds hot as _fuck_ —what do you think about? Do you think about me? Because I think about you. Or did. I haven't really been in the mood lately, but that's gonna change real quick after tonight. Do you wanna know what I thought about, all the different ways I imagined us fucking? 'Cause there were a lot—in my bed; in your bed; up against a wall; on the hood of your car; in the backseat of my Jeep... I lost count a long time ago. I thought about how you'd be, if you'd take me hard and fast or if you'd be soft and sweet. I thought about you sucking me off, or me sucking you off, about what your come would taste like. You'd get so into it that you couldn't stop yourself from wolfing out, and I'd be surprised at first but then it would be so hot that I'd beg you to go harder, faster, to really give it to me. We'd fuck over and over until we got so tired we couldn't go any more."

A low growling sound emanates from deep within Derek's chest, catching Stiles' attention. Derek's eyes are hooded, peering down at him like he just wants to gobble him up. Stiles is more than willing and, with a hand around the back of Derek's neck, pulls him down until their lips crash together. Kissing messily, teeth clacking, Derek starts moving his hips again in slow, filthy rolls that have Stiles' eyes rolling back in his head. He needs more, is desperate to come, so he clamps his legs around Derek's muscular thighs and pushes himself up into the rock-hard cock that grinds down against his own.

They find an easy rhythm.

His hands tangling in the back of Derek's shirt, nails digging into the shifting muscle beneath, Stiles wrenches his mouth away and sucks in great lungfuls of air as his orgasm builds fast in his gut. Derek seems to envelop him completely, like a wall that blocks out everything else. Stiles is effectively trapped, but he doesn't care at all—he loves it, in fact, isn't frightened for even a second, because it's Derek and he knows that, if he told him to, Derek would stop in a heartbeat. Flinging his head back, Stiles feels the scrape of Derek's beard across his neck as the wolf sucks and nips at the vulnerable skin with sharp teeth, marking him for the whole world to see. Stiles is faintly aware that he'll have one hell of a hickey come morning, one he'll wear with pride. With another roll of his hips, Derek has Stiles' vision going white as his orgasm crests, his toes curling as his balls draw up and his cock shoots jets of sticky come within the confines of his underwear.

Derek isn't far behind.

With a loud, almost anguished howl, the alpha comes, too, somehow retaining just enough brain power in the throes of passion to move his head at the last second and sink his fangs deep into the pillows instead of Stiles' neck. He bucks his hips wildly as his orgasm overtakes him, pushes down hard in order to prolong the pleasure, until it tapers off and his body is racked with small aftershocks.

Neither he nor Stiles move.

They both lack the energy or the desire to.

Stiles is content, squished under Derek's substantial weight.

He turns his head and buries his nose in his wolf's neck, breathing him in. The scent of sweat and sex and _Derek_ fills his nostrils, a wonderful smell that has his dick twitching again with interest.

"Quit it," Derek rumbles, spitting out a large chunk of pillow.

"Quit what?"

"I can smell your arousal getting stronger."

"Relax, you grump. I'm just basking in the afterglow."

Derek moves off to the side with a grunt. "Liar."

Stiles rolls his eyes.


	12. Under the Light of the Full Moon

_\- Friday, February 18th, 2011 -_

Walking toward his first class of the day, Stiles makes it down a couple of hallways before he comes across Jackson laughing with some of his supercilious friends from the lacrosse team, with what is presumably a new girlfriend hanging off his arm. The cynosure of this little group, Jackson juts his chin out arrogantly when he sees who is approaching, as if he wants to reinforce to Stiles just how much better he is than him, even without the status symbol of Lydia next to him. Stiles rolls his eyes and breezes past them, not wanting to get caught up in something so pointless, but then he hears something that gives him pause:

"And then what happened?" the girl asks.

"Yeah, Jacks, don't leave us hangin'," one of the boys urges.

Stiles slows his gait.

"Well..." Jackson teases, cocky grin in place as he postures for his eager audience. His nameless girlfriend—a girl with dull brown hair and a plain face even when caked with makeup, not a patch on Lydia—twirls a lock of hair around her index finger as she stares up at him adoringly, like she thinks he hung the moon. Stiles finds it incredibly difficult to resist gagging at this display, but then, when Jackson keeps talking, he has to put his energy into not punching the blond's lights out. "That Lahey kid's lived across the street from me for as long as I can remember, and he's been getting his ass handed to him by his dad for most of that time. This was something else, though. I was taking out the trash when I heard screaming and this great crash coming from their house. The loser came stumbling out a few seconds later with this massive cut on his head. It was so pathetic! I don't know why his dad hasn't just kicked him out yet. It would serve him right. But then again, I think his dad makes him work digging up graves or something, and from the state of his clothes I don't think he sees any of the money. His dad takes it all, so who knows? Maybe that extra income is enough of a reason to put up with him. Still, he's pitiful. From what I've heard, I don't think he even tries to fight back! You ask me, anyone that fucking weak deserves everything they get."

Feeling sick to his stomach, Stiles scurries on, away from the upsetting conversation, until he reaches the next corridor over. This one is substantially emptier of bodies and allows him a reprieve of sorts, in which he racks his brain in search of a way forward. Jackson's words have struck a chord, his own less-than-stellar relationship with the sheriff instantly endearing this mysterious Lahey boy to him.

He needs to help however he can.

Stiles swears he has heard the name somewhere before, maybe seen it on the news or something when the sheriff had it on. After thinking about it for longer than he should—the bell rings as he stands there, informing him that he's going to be late for class—a hazy memory comes into focus. A tragic event that everyone in town gossiped about for months after the fact, he recalls that an older boy named Camden Lahey died in combat many years back, and his dad, who at the time was the coach of the high school swim team, sequestered himself away in his house to grieve and has rarely been seen since. Camden had a younger brother. Stiles can't think of his first name but, from the few times they've bumped into each other around school, he knows that the other boy is usually by himself, meek, apologetic, and always wears many unnecessary layers and long-sleeved shirts. Armed with this new description of violence thanks to Jackson, Stiles sees what he hadn't during any of his brief run-ins with this unnamed boy, the abuse he must have been trying to cover up.

But what can he do?

His dad is out, for obvious reasons.

Maybe Derek, or Melissa.

"No..." he mumbles to himself, biting his thumbnail.

Melissa has enough on her plate, as does Derek with the betas.

Parrish?

Yeah, Parrish sounds like a good idea. The deputy was incredibly supportive when he came over to the McCall house earlier in the week to see how things were going. He would have come sooner, he said, but he'd wanted to give Stiles a few days to settle in. He'd only stayed for about half an hour, and as he left had assured Stiles that everyone down at the station had his back and that, should Stiles ever need anything, all he had to do was ask. Hopeful that this statement wasn't just perfunctory, Stiles pulls out his phone and composes a text to the deputy, asking what can be done to help someone he suspects is being abused.

* * *

That evening, Derek stands in the parking lot outside his building and waits. He has one eye on the horizon, watching as the sun sinks slowly in the blazing sky, and the other on his phone to keep track of the time. 5:30, just twenty minutes away from sundown. In a perfect world, the betas would have arrived some time ago, ready to be chained up for the full moon. But he hadn't been diligent enough last week to specify a time, and as a consequence they'll be cutting it close this month. Already Derek can feel the thrall of the moon—it seems stronger now that he's an alpha, redolent of his first few moons after his wolf had emerged, an augury that he was about to begin his journey through adolescence. Born werewolves always hit puberty early on, at 10 years old at the latest, and he was no different. He'd struggled for a humiliatingly long time under his mother's tutelage to attain and then maintain control, the transient nature of his youthful mind making it difficult to find an anchor that stuck. The moon is a lodestone, urging him via the tingling beneath every inch of his skin to let loose and run wild, to cast off the shackles of human morals and chase after what he wants. His wolf paces in his mind, already raring to go, and it's by sheer force of will that he keeps it tethered. He hopes he'll be well enough equipped to deal with his betas' paroxysms of violence as well as his own.

Eventually, Derek hears the telltale rumble of engines in the distance, getting closer until three vehicles join his Camaro in the otherwise empty lot. Allison and Chris arrive together, both visibly edgy and wary of what is to come. Lydia is more reserved, upholding a facade of confidence that almost covers up the fact that she feels the same. And, lastly, Scott comes to a stop on his bike and pulls off his helmet. It's clear to everyone, especially Derek, that he doesn't want to be there, but Derek is glad.

It means a fragile détente has been reached.

As everyone gathers, another vehicle approaches.

Derek immediately recognises it.

Stiles in his Jeep.

With a deep frown, Derek steps forward as Stiles hops out.

"Yo, Sourwolf!" the boy greets cheerfully.

"Why are you here?" Derek asks gently, cutting right to the chase. He is very much aware of the audience they have and doesn't want to draw this unpleasantness out any more than he has to.

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't I be here?"

"It's too dangerous. You should go home."

Stiles takes umbrage at this, all traces of happiness leaving his face and his voice. "That's ridiculous!" he demurs, flicking his eyes over to rest briefly on the group of four which stands a few feet away. Each of them is looking elsewhere, making such a show of pretending not to eavesdrop that it becomes blatant that they are. Derek has half a mind to send them inside ahead of him, but with the betas' supernatural hearing he knows that wouldn't achieve much, if anything at all. There's nothing to be done about it, so when Stiles speaks again he reluctantly returns to the task at hand. "I have just as much right to be here as anyone else, and you of all people should know that. They're my friends—well, except for Scott—and I want to help them get through this. Give me one good reason why you're trying to send me away. Go on; I bet you can't."

Heaving a sigh, Derek looks dolefully at Stiles and offers up what he hopes will be a cogent and tenable argument: "Stiles... I can't have you here and do my job at the same time," he rationalises, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I promise this isn't about you. At least not how you think. I know you're capable of taking care of yourself, but if you stay and something happens with the betas, if one of them gets loose or worse... This is Lydia and Allison's first full moon, and as their alpha I owe it to them to get them through it unscathed." He pauses to peek back over his shoulder and then, because he is uncomfortable with the others overhearing what he has to say next, lowers his voice in the vain hope of it being enough to keep private this part of their talk. "You know what you are to me. If things go wrong, I don't think I'd be able to focus on anything but keeping you safe, and that will come at the cost of everything else. Plus, you know it's hard for me to keep my cool around you on a normal night. This is _my_ first full moon, too, as an alpha, and I don't think I could live with myself if I ended up hurting you. So please, if not for your own safety, then for me, go home."

A rictus smile forms on Stiles' face. "Fine."

Derek sees right through it.

"Stiles..."

"No, it's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Derek watches regretfully as the boy trots disconsolately back to his Jeep and drives off again. He wishes things could be different, that he didn't have to make Stiles feel excluded, but needs must. Maybe next month things will have calmed down enough for Stiles to be present, and in the interim he resolves that he'll try to make it up to him somehow. Following another sigh, Derek casts those thoughts to the back of his mind and turns to face the remaining teenagers with his head held high, his face a confident mask. "Right, let's get down to the basement," he says. "I've already got everything set up, but we don't have much time."

* * *

"Tell me if they're too tight."

"Nah, they're OK."

"Good."

In the capacious basement, Derek steps back from the old mattress on which Lydia sits in an old pair of jeans and a ratty T-shirt, satisfied that they're ready to go. Her wrists are wrapped in cuffs, which are connected with heavy chains to hooks screwed deep into the middle of one of the rough brick walls. In the corners either side of her are Allison and Scott, both in similar restraints, while Chris sits in a chair on the other side of the room with a hunting rifle across his lap, loaded with enough tranquillisers to take down a savage werewolf in seconds. After assiduously checking everybody's restraints one last time, Derek stations himself next to the older man and leans against the wall, his head tilted skyward as he feels the pull of the moon becoming more profound with each passing second. The betas are clearly all feeling it, too, shifting restlessly on their mattresses with looks of steely determination on their faces. Derek is sure they'll put up a valiant effort to contain themselves but, ultimately, those efforts will be for naught. No new werewolf, especially those who are brand-new like Lydia and Allison, can masterfully utilise their anchor under such strenuous circumstances. He has never really had to help anybody else before—last month, Scott's first full moon, doesn't count in his opinion, as he'd just knocked the young beta out before anything even had a chance to happen.

This will be the first true test of Derek's skill as an alpha, a sink-or-swim moment without anyone else there to keep him afloat. He has Chris, sure, but the hunter is really just there as a last resort in case Derek fails to protect his betas from themselves. He prays he has enough mettle to stand on his own two feet under the weight of this responsibility, that he can get them all through the night without incident.

"Here we go," Chris whispers, picking up his rifle.

The warning brings Derek out of his head. He finds the walls filled with low, threatening growls, echoing all around as the impotent grip the betas have on their anchors gets weaker and weaker. Six pinpricks of gold shine in the gloom, all trained on him, and he in turn feels his own eyes flashing red, the alpha in him instinctively responding to its betas. As Lydia and Allison both lose themselves to the moon and pull violently at their bindings, biting and clawing ineffectually at the clinking metal, Derek feels a pack mentality building rapidly—he wants to break them free himself, for them to all escape the confines of the basement and revel in nature, in blood and destruction. But, determinedly, he concentrates on his own anchor in order to subjugate his wolf and focus on what he's supposed to do. Only it doesn't work.

The battle of wills only becomes harder, his anchor not weighing his wolf down at all. Derek panics now. Distantly he can sense Chris beside him, asking him what's wrong, but he has no attention to spare. He curls his hands into fists so that claws he is unable to put away tear into his palms, giving him something to focus on. The pain helps, acts as a temporary respite that he uses to figure out why he is having so much trouble. Anger has been his anchor since the middle of his teenage years. Directed at himself, it reminded him of what had happened what he'd acted impetuously in the past, of how dearly it had cost him.

It was infallible in its potency.

So what's changed?

Maybe it isn't strong enough for an alpha wolf.

Either that, or it's the anchor itself that has changed.

"Derek!"

Whipping his head around at Chris' voice, it takes Derek a second to process what he has missed. He sees Lydia pulling with all her might on her chains and lumbers forward to stop her, but he doesn't reach her in time. The hook comes free of the wall with a mighty crash, the bricks crumbling and orange dust permeating the air. The three of them stand still. Derek and Chris are both shocked—they'd been sure the restraints would be enough, but Lydia apparently has more strength than they gave her credit for—while Lydia stares with fascination down her clawed hands, like she, too, is surprised she was able to break free. Then, with a loud triumphant roar she sprints for the exit. Chris can't raise his gun in time to tranquillise her, nor can Derek spring forward fast enough to grab hold of her before she bangs through the door and disappears up the stone steps. Spurred on by her compeer's success, Allison renews her own attempts to escape and Scott, at the same time, finally gives up the fight to retain his humanity and follows her lead.

"Go after her!" Chris shouts.

"On it!" Derek responds, already dashing at full tilt for the stairs. He makes it back up to the ground floor and tracks Lydia's scent to the double doors on the other side of the room. When he gets outside to the parking lot, he loses her scent in a gust of frigid wind and has to stop with his nose in the air to find it again. His wolf, still prowling frustrated and unfulfilled in his mind, uses this pause to make another bid for freedom, gaining strength from the moon shining directly down on them. Derek is overcome for a moment and, though he doesn't want to, finds himself taking several steps forward before he manages to wrestle back control of his body. Returning to himself, Derek frowns and momentarily forgets that he is supposed to be hunting down Lydia, too caught off-guard is he by what his wolf taking over has revealed—its lone goal, to get to Stiles.

Strangely, this leads him to the answer he'd been looking for back down in the basement. He knows now why anger didn't mitigate the effect of the moon. It's not his recent ascension from beta to alpha that was the problem, but his burgeoning affections for the boy he had sent away an hour ago.

Stiles is the reason.

Stiles is his new anchor.

"Huh."

Derek can't help the small smile that forms on his lips.

He allows himself a few moments to enjoy this revelation, then goes back to sniffing the air for a trace of Lydia's scent. He finds the trail again soon enough, though it has already faded substantially because of the time he'd just wasted. Castigating himself, Derek follows her tracks as quickly as he can, his heartbeat increasing when he deduces that Lydia is heading toward the heart of town. Upping his pace even more, he pushes through his body's protestations, his muscles tiring unusually quickly as he gets closer to civilisation. Thankfully, not many people will be around at this time of night, Beacon Hills' less-than-stellar nightlife meaning that most people will be in bed after a hard day's work instead of out partying. As far as Derek knows, the town only has one major nightclub, Jungle, which he vaguely remembers from the lone time Laura had dragged him there. She'd covertly given him a fake ID while they were waiting in line to get in and had somehow forgotten to mention the fact that it was a gay club until they were already through the door. Derek tried to make the most of it, loitering by the bar and blowing most of his allowance on overpriced drinks that had no effect because of his werewolf metabolism. But he was hit on endlessly by lecherous guys several years his senior, so after about an hour of uncomfortably dodging their propositions he'd called it a night.

Guessing that Jungle is his safest bet, Derek veers to the left at the next intersection and, after taking a second to assess whether he is still going the same way as Lydia, sprints off toward the nightclub. He can hear the bombastic EDM from a long way off, shaking the ground and eclipsing the other mundane sounds one would expect to hear late at night. Coming to a stop across the road from Jungle, Derek hides in a caliginous alleyway and scans his eyes over the small crowd that is gathered outside the club.

No one seems distressed or injured.

Either Derek was mistaken and Lydia was never heading here, or he has somehow beaten her to her destination. Checking the air again, he recoils when he is met with an overwhelming abundance of unsavoury smells—stale sweat and various drugs and alcohol, as well as both old and repugnantly fresh semen, is all he can pick up, commixing into a toxic cloud from which it is impossible to discern anything else. Looking down at the ground, he wrinkles his nose in disgust when he spots the assortment of used condoms scattered around his feet, the source of one of those unsavoury smells. Taking this as a sign that it's time he move on—he doesn't really have time to waste waiting around anyway—Derek does an about-face, hoping that he _was_ mistaken, that Lydia went to a different part of town entirely. He'll retrace his steps carefully and see if maybe he'd missed a divergence in the beta's scent trail somewhere along the way.

It's then that he sees it:

A silhouette standing at the other end of the alley.

Derek immediately knows that it's Lydia.

As he slowly approaches her, he keeps his guard up in case she should attack without warning. Making sure that Stiles is front and centre in his mind, Derek allows his wolf to come out until his eyes glow red, which lets him see more clearly in the dimly lit space. Lydia is looking right back at him, her hair a tangled mess, her clothes torn and smeared with dirt, her top lip curled back in a snarl. With each step closer Derek hears her growling get louder, until they stand just five feet from each other and he can see clearly that there is no intelligence behind her golden eyes. She's all animal, so there's no use trying to reason with her. Knowing what he must do, Derek doesn't let any more time slip by and attacks first. He leaps forward and makes a grab for her, but she darts around him and rakes her claws over the back of his neck. The bright sparks of pain cause him to stumble, his vision turning white, before he pushes through it and spins around to retaliate. Already Lydia is hurtling away from him to the other end of the alley and to Jungle, so he hastens to catch up. Just as she is about to break out onto the street and startle innocent people, Derek stretches his arm forward and latches on to the back of Lydia's shirt, abruptly stopping and—for a fraction of a second—strangling her.

She goes down in an instant and, before she can get back up and make another attempt for the crowd of people that stands obliviously just a few feet away, Derek is on her. Planting himself firmly astride her, he feels the skin of his arms splitting as Lydia claws and bites savagely at him but perseveres in his task, taking her head in both of his hands and slamming the back of it roughly into the hard ground.

Lydia is knocked out cold, and Derek sighs in relief.

That was close, he thinks.

With a grunt, he stands and slings Lydia over his shoulder.

Then, he begins the long trek back to the loft.

* * *

_\- Saturday, February 19th, 2011 -_

Stiles sits on the Argents' front steps with his chin resting on his palm. He's been sat there for a couple of hours now, keyed up and galvanised by Derek's well-intentioned but hurtful dismissal the previous evening. There has been no movement yet from within the house, but that suits Stiles just fine. Who he's after isn't in there anyway, but from the text Derek sent him a short while ago—which, because he still feels rankled, has gone pettily unanswered—he knows that his quarry will show up soon. Sure enough, at just gone 7 a.m. a haggard-looking Chris pulls his car into the driveway with Allison in the passenger seat.

Getting up, Stiles waits expectantly for them to clamber out.

"Hey, Stiles," Allison mumbles, dead on her feet.

"Hey," he replies.

"Mr. Stilinski," Chris says warily. "This is a surprise."

Nodding but offering nothing further, Stiles follows the Argents inside. Allison goes straight upstairs, the lure of her bed too much for her to resist, while Stiles heads into the living room on Chris' heels. As he'd thought, Victoria and Gerard are still sleeping, which makes him feel more at ease.

"Mr. Argent, I was wondering something..."

Chris stares at him from the sofa when he doesn't continue. "Yes?"

"Well, I was just wondering..."

"Just spit it out."

Stiles chuckles nervously, then stands tall, his face serious.

"I want you to train me."


	13. These Things Have a Way of Getting Out

"God, I want to die..." Stiles groans to himself as he drags his tired, battered body down the Argents' driveway. His first session as a trainee hunter has just ended and he has never in his life felt so sore, not even when one of the other guys on the lacrosse team got rough during after-school practice. Already he can feel the bruises forming, caused by the barrage of fists he'd failed to block as he was put through his paces in the Argents' back garden.

Stiles had mistakenly thought they'd start slow, but he’d fast found out that Chris doesn't believe in using kid gloves. The hunter got right to it, wanting to find out what he was working with, what innate or preexisting ability Stiles possessed, however small, that would give him a head start. Needless to say, Stiles had none. What followed was a solid hour of getting beaten up every which way, while Victoria watched with an ill-concealed smirk on her lips from the kitchen window. By the end of it, Stiles had felt like a walking corpse, but he didn't let the hurt show. His resolve wasn't broken and so, despite what he considered to be an epic failure of a first training session, when Chris had given him the option to bow out gracefully, he'd declined and asked when they would be meeting again for round two. Chris had looked impressed.

Somehow, Stiles manages to get himself back home without crashing his Jeep. Vaguely he notes that Melissa's car and Scott's bike aren’t in the driveway, but, as he finds when he gets inside, that doesn't mean the house is empty. Derek waits for him in the living room and rushes over with concern when he enters.

"What happened?" the wolf enquires urgently.

"Nothing, nothing," Stiles dismisses, trying to move past him.

"You look like hell!"

"Gee, thanks."

"Tell me."

"Ugh, fine!" Stiles capitulates. His exhaustion and the delicate state of his body, as well as his still-wounded pride, cause him to become snippy, and the fact that this is his first interaction with Derek since yesterday evening doesn't help. He still feels like Derek sees him as inferior, even though he knows rationally that this is in no way the case. As a result he isn't sure how to behave, nor is he sure how Derek will react to the explanation for his bruises. He almost wants to keep his training a secret, on the down-low until he has made enough progress to come away from a session without feeling so tender. Still, he is certain that Derek won't budge and spills the beans: "I was with Mr. Argent, alright? I asked him to train me."

Perplexed, Derek asks, "Why would you do that?"

"Because I want to be stronger."

"But last night wasn't about you. I already told you that."

"Whatever you say..."

"It wasn't. It was about-"

"I don't care!"

Derek stares at him with wide eyes that soon become wounded.

"Look..." Stiles sighs, instantly feeling terrible when his wolf looks at the floor. "I'm just tired, alright? It's no excuse, but I didn't mean to snap at you and I'm sorry for that." He rubs his hand awkwardly over the back of his neck, then, when Derek still refuses to look at him, moves forward and hugs him. The embrace isn't immediately returned, but after a short time he feels Derek's arms come around him and knows he's forgiven. Stiles indulges in the embrace for a while before disentangling himself with a peck on the lips. "I know your intention wasn't to make me feel left out, but you did. I guess I'm a bit sensitive about stuff like that right now. I want to be a proper member of your pack, a part of the whole process, and to do that I have to get stronger. Allison's dad can help me there. Yeah, our first session didn't go that well but I'm gonna stick with it until I get better. I'm sure I'll be kicking ass in no time, and then you won't have to worry about my safety as much. It's a win all around."

Although he is obviously a little dubious, Stiles is grateful when Derek doesn't dispute this. The alpha simply nods and allows the subject to drop, letting him decide for himself what is in his best interest. "Right," Stiles sighs, a new wave of weariness hitting him full force. He will without a doubt be turning in early, and he hopes that in the morning he won't feel so tender. The thought of spending his Sunday unable to move doesn't sound at all appealing. "Now that we've got all that cleared up, I'm gonna go take a shower. I probably stink."

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but now that you bring it up..."

"Hey!" Stiles protests, smacking Derek on the arm.

With a chuckle, the wolf steps aside. "Just go shower, idiot."

* * *

A little while later, Stiles comes back downstairs, phone in hand, and enters the living room wearing a pair of forest-green pyjama bottoms and the Henley that Derek had let him borrow two weeks ago. He'd selected the latter specially and is pleased when it gets a reaction.

Derek does a double take when he sees him, his eyes instantly zeroing in on the shirt and turning heated for the briefest of seconds, and then he leaps up from the sofa and darts into the kitchen, spouting off the excuse that he needs to get a refill of his water. Stiles, not believing this at all, peeks around the door frame and sees the alpha adjusting himself in his jeans, a sight that makes him snicker. He can't quite stifle the sound behind his hand, which leads to Derek glaring at him and telling him halfheartedly to shut up. Miming zipping up his lips, Stiles returns to the living room and falls lengthways on the sofa.

The hot water from the shower has soothed his aching muscles, but he still feels a little sore and wiggles in place until he finds a position that doesn't aggravate his spine. Derek joins him again after a minute, the crotch of his jeans still a little tighter than usual, and tells him to budge. Grudgingly, Stiles moves his legs off the sofa so that Derek can sit down at the other end, but then he moves them right back so they lay across the alpha's lap. Derek shoots him another glare but, at Stiles' impenitent grin, doesn't try to push him off again. Switching his attention to his phone, Stiles holds down the power button and waits impatiently for the lock screen to appear so that he can put in his passcode. He'd left it in his bedroom earlier that afternoon, when he went to the Argents' to begin his training, and he is curious now about what he might have missed.

Nothing shows up at first, but soon a text message from Parrish comes in, the timestamp telling Stiles that it was sent soon after he'd left. He groans disappointedly when he reads the contents.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks.

"It's nothing..."

"Haven't we already played this game?"

"Yeah, I guess we have."

Relenting, Stiles explains the situation. "I wasn't originally gonna involve you because I thought you already had enough on your plate, but now..." he says regretfully, rereading Parrish's message and feeling his heart sink all over again. "You remember Jackson? He was with Allison and Lydia when Peter attacked us all at the school. Well, on Monday I heard him talking about this other kid in our grade that he lives across the street from and the things he hears coming from there. He was revelling, really, 'cause he's a complete fucking dick, but whatever. That's beside the point, I guess. Isaac Lahey's his name. I don't really know him but I've seen him around a few times. Apparently his dad's been beating the shit out of him for years and no one's done anything about it, so I asked Parrish if he could look into it, maybe get Isaac out of there. But nope. Without proof, and Isaac is too scared to come forward, there's nothing the cops can do." He sighs as he locks his phone. "It's just... After my dad, it gets to me, y'know?"

"I think I do," Derek responds, looking thoughtful. He rests his hand on Stiles' legs, the warmth of his palm seeping into the bare skin of Stiles' shin. "I think I might be able to help, if you want. The betas will be settled enough until the next full moon and I've already finished most of the renovations in my loft, so I've got some time to spare. They say they need proof? Well, I'll get them some."

"How?" Stiles asks apprehensively.

"Just let me take care of it."

"But-"

"Seriously, don't worry about it."

Stiles regards him with a frown and, not backing down on this point, finds the energy to sit up so that they're closer and he can look Derek properly in the eye. "You're not gonna do anything illegal, right?" he demands, fighting a wince when this new position causes his ribs to twinge painfully. Derek still notices, but he presses on without giving him a chance to change the subject. "It's important that Isaac gets out of there, sure, but I don't want you giving my dad any reason to arrest you. I honestly wouldn't put it past him to play unfair at this point, and I know from the way he looked at you the last time we saw each other that he already doesn't like you. He's not stupid. Even though we haven’t really done anything yet, if he gets his hands on you, I'm worried he might try and pin you with statutory rape charges or something."

"I'll be careful, I promise."

"You'd better be."

"Or what?" Derek asks, a twinkle in his eye.

"Or I'm gonna kick your furry butt, Mr., that's what!"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Gimme a few months and you'll be eating those words."

"It's a date."

* * *

_\- Sunday, February 20th, 2011 -_

Stiles walks through the preserve with his arms wrapped around his torso, wishing he'd had the forethought to bring a jacket with him as he'd left the house. He remembers that his red hoodie was hung up on the hook on the back of his bedroom door, put there by Melissa after it somehow got put in with her clothes when she was doing the laundry. It taunts him now as the wind whips around his face and bare arms, making him shiver. Having slept through his alarm, he'd woken up just fifteen minutes ago to a series of texts from Derek, Lydia and Erica, all of them asking him where he is. He'd sprung out of bed and got washed and dressed in a hurry and, still not fully awake, rushed dangerously to the preserve to find everybody's vehicles already parked up together in the same nook they'd used last time.

Upping his pace to reach his destination more quickly and fend off the cold, Stiles hopes that, even though there's no escaping him being late now, he won't have missed anything too important. When he arrives at the clearing he finds everybody just standing around, apparently waiting for him. "Sorry I'm late; I overslept," he excuses.

"That's alright. We haven't been here long anyway," Derek assures as half of the group splits off, those who aren't active participants in the session returning to the toppled tree to observe once more. Stiles joins Erica and Boyd atop the gargantuan trunk and, still shivering a little, sandwiches himself between them in order to draw some warmth from their bodies. The betas stand together in the middle of the clearing, Lydia and Allison tying up their long hair so it's out of the way and Scott looking bored, while Derek shrugs off his leather jacket and walks over to the tree with it in hand. He holds it up for Stiles to take, the concern in his eyes belying the otherwise impassive expression on his face. "Here."

"Thanks, Sourwolf," Stiles smiles.

"You're welcome."

Derek walks away and addresses the betas. "Alright! Let's get this show on the road!" he booms.

Sliding his arms through the sleeves of the proffered jacket, Stiles pulls it tight around his body and sighs contentedly when he finds that it blocks him from the wind, Derek's residual warmth seeping into his body. As the training session begins, he tries to concentrate but is immediately distracted by Erica speaking up with a smirk on her cherry-red lips:

"So, I take it things are going well with the two of you?"

He glances her way and smiles back. "Yeah, they are."

"That's good."

"Yup."

"You guys done anything yet?"

"Uhh..."

Glancing across the clearing, Stiles sees to his relief that Derek isn't listening in. The alpha is too busy engaging in fierce combat with Allison and Lydia, having to put in more effort to fend off their advances than he'd had to last weekend. Scott stands by himself on the sidelines, looking unsure of what he’s supposed to be doing, until Lydia sneaks up behind him and pushes him into the fray.

Even though there is no evidence of them being overheard, Stiles is reluctant to discuss his and Derek's sex life with Erica. He doesn't think he would be comfortable sharing such intimate details with _anyone_ , not even Scott, were they still as close as they used to be. That wasn't always the case—it wasn't too long ago that he was complaining to Scott about how all of their peers were having sex but no one was interested in him. His outlook has changed recently, and it only takes him a second to pinpoint the cause.

Of course, it comes back to Peter.

The deceased Hale altered a lot about him that night in the old parking garage, and his opinion on sex is just one more part of that. The idea of casual sex no longer holds the value it had once upon a time—it's too risky, presents too many opportunities for him to get hurt again—and Derek is the only person he can see himself getting close to now. Letting other people into that part of his life, making himself vulnerable like that with anyone but Derek, seems odious to him. Looking back at Erica, Stiles takes in her expectant expression and gulps nervously around the lump that appears suddenly in his throat.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"I'm just interested, is all," she responds, not deterred by Stiles' obvious hesitance. "C'mon, spill! We're friends, and friends talk about this kind of stuff. I think we're all mature enough here, so I'll ask again: Have you guys fucked yet?"

Stiles struggles for what to say. "I don’t... No?"

"What's stopping you? I would've climbed that like a tree by now!"

"Erica," Boyd interpolates, saving Stiles.

"What?" she frowns, leaning forward to look at him.

"Back off a little, OK?"

"Why?"

"If he doesn't want to talk about it, you shouldn’t force him."

"Ugh, fine," she mumbles, rolling her eyes as Stiles mouths a thank you to Boyd. "Let's talk about something easier then, you prudes. How’s the job hunt coming along?"

"Not that great," Stiles laments. "No one seems to want to hire the sheriff's kid."

"Hmm, that definitely sucks, but I think I might have a solution."

Stiles perks up.

"How about I talk to my mom, see if she'll take you on?" Erica suggests.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course. We're friends, remember? Even if you are a prude."

"Thanks. What does she do?"

"She owns a little shop in town, Alisha's Boutique. It's where I got this from, actually," Erica explains, a hint of pride in her voice as she sits up straight and opens her jacket to show off the T-shirt she wears beneath. Made of soft white cotton, printed on the front of the T-shirt in black ink is an intricate and beautiful line drawing of two foxes leaping over a field. "I can't promise anything because I don't think she's _officially_ looking for help right now, but she's always complaining about how much work there is to be done. And she's got this big clearance sale going on at the moment, to get rid of some of the old stock, so maybe if I told her about your situation, she'd consider giving you a trial run or something. I should probably warn you, though—she only stocks women's fashion, so it’s a pretty girly place. Still interested?"

"Yeah, I don't have a problem with that."

"Cool. I'll talk to her later."

Before the conversation can progress any further, a loud high-pitched scream echoes throughout the clearing.

Whipping his head around, Stiles feels fear and confusion blossom in his chest when he sees Allison lying on the ground, wincing in pain as she holds her left arm close to her chest. Scott and Derek are crouched down beside her, and Victoria and Chris soon join them, racing over the check on their daughter. Stiles hops down from the tree as well to get a closer look, but pauses a few feet away when he sees blood. Allison's arm is clearly broken, bent the wrong way with the shattered bone a disturbingly large and jagged bump that pierces through her pale skin.

Stiles can hear Derek apologising profusely as Scott leeches off her pain, while Victoria hurls accusations of carelessness Derek’s way. Allison was thrown to the ground by one of Derek’s deflections and landed wrong, resulting in the nauseating injury. Holding onto the measly breakfast he had shoved down his throat as he'd left for the preserve, Stiles walks the last few steps until he stands right next to Derek. When Scott picks his girlfriend up and she releases a whimper of pain, Stiles sees guilt flash across Derek’s face and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"C'mon, we should get her to your boss's right away," Chris says to Scott. "He'll be able to reset the bone."

Everyone else is left staring after them as they leave, still in shock. Everyone but Victoria, whose body vibrates with anger that she unleashes on Derek: "This is _your_ fault!" she spits, pushing Stiles roughly out of the way as she gets up in the alpha’s face. Stiles nearly falls over in surprise and only stays on his feet because Boyd and Erica are right behind him to give him a helping hand. When she reaches Derek, Victoria’s voice is like a whip, lashing out to inflict hurt. "I've never liked you, and this is why! You're a stupid animal!"

"Hey!" Stiles barks.

"Stay out of this, little boy," she sneers.

Gerard steps forward and puts a hand on her arm. "Where are you going with this?"

In answer, Victoria reaches for the waistband of her jeans.

She pulls out a handgun.

"I've been anticipating this moment for a while now," Victoria says, lining the sights up so that the barrel points right between Derek's eyes. Stiles stares at the shiny metal, unable to believe that Victoria would be crazy enough to bring something with her that could cause such destruction. She and her sister-in-law are apparently not all that different.

No one else moves, not even Derek, who seems too caught off-guard to get out of the line of fire. "Your family has been nothing but a menace to mine for as long as we've known each other, and I think it's time for that to stop," Victoria says vituperatively. "You aren't good enough to be Allison's alpha. You aren't good enough to be _anyone's_ alpha, to be completely honest, but least of all hers. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt because Chris convinced me you could do this. But you're just like your bastard uncle."

She clicks off the safety.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Stiles shouts, breaking away from Boyd and bravely—or perhaps stupidly—throwing himself between Derek and Victoria. He ignores the rush of his heart pounding in his ears and keeps his gaze on the redhead's narrowed eyes. "Derek's done nothing wrong, so put away the gun and calm the _fuck_ down!"

Victoria sneers. "You... You're the worst of the lot, aren't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're even worse than that one." Victoria's eyes rest briefly on Derek before returning to Stiles. The unadulterated hatred on her face, compounded by the way her extended arm shakes violently, has him genuinely fearing for his life, but then she seems to reconsider and lowers the gun to her side. “At least _he_ has the excuse of being half animal. You, though... You’re all human, which makes what you did all the more deplorable. Killing one of your own to save one of _them_. I don’t know how you managed to get the better of someone so much more skilled than you, but I sincerely hope you rot in Hell for what you did to Kate. You deserve nothing less.” With that, she storms off in her husband’s footsteps.

With Victoria gone, the tense atmosphere in the clearing dissipates, leaving behind tiredness and curiosity. Gerard stares at Stiles, his expression inscrutable, until Stiles gets uncomfortable and looks away. "Damn, that was intense," he mutters to no one in particular.

"You're telling me," Erica agrees.

"Are you OK?" Lydia asks him, stepping forward with a frown.

"Yeah, I’m fine," he says before turning to Derek. "I guess that’s the end of today’s session, then?"

The alpha nods jerkily. "Until next week."

"Victoria won’t be here then, I hope," Lydia interjects.

"I’ll speak to Chris about it. I think he’ll agree it’s for the best."

"Good. That woman is batshit insane and I don’t want to be around her ever again."

"Agreed," Erica says.

With that settled, Lydia and Erica bid Derek and Stiles farewell and drag Boyd away with them. Scott exits the clearing, too, followed by Gerard, which leaves Derek alone with Stiles. With no one else around for whom he has to keep up a show of strength, his frazzled nerves come to the surface and he rounds on the boy. "What the hell were you thinking, stepping in front of her gun like that?!" he demands. "You could have been _killed_!"

Stiles stands defiantly under Derek’s heated gaze. "Like you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing for me."

"That’s different!"

"How?"

"You’re human. You wouldn’t heal!"

"So you’re telling me that Victoria’s gun _wasn’t_ filled with wolfsbane bullets? Puh- _lease_. It totally was, so it could’ve easily killed you, too. I didn't mean to scare you like that but I’m not going to apologise for trying to protect you."

"You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for me!" Derek says passionately. "I’m not worth your life."

Stiles blinks, taken aback. "You really believe that?" he asks, shaking his head in denial when Derek looks away, his face shuttering. "You’re wrong. So fucking wrong... I know I can be a dick sometimes and I'm not great at expressing it, but you’re the most important person in my life—you’re worth _everything_. How can you not know that by now?"

When Derek doesn’t respond, Stiles sighs and steps closer. He curls his index finger beneath Derek’s chin until he is forced to look at him. "Look, how about this: You care about me and don’t want to see me get hurt, so I’ll try my best to stay out of trouble if it can be avoided, alright? And in return, I want you to promise me that you’ll start taking proper care of yourself. Like I said, I care about you, Sourwolf, a lot and I don’t want to see you get hurt either. That would hurt me, too, so let’s stop fighting and leave it there. Does that sound reasonable?"

Derek nods his acceptance. "OK."

Stiles smiles and presses his lips to his wolf’s bearded cheek. "OK."


	14. The End of the Tunnel

_\- Monday, February 21st, 2011 -_

At 6 p.m., Derek sits slumped down in his car across the street from Isaac Lahey's house, counting on the darkness of the evening to shroud his presence from the neighbours. He knows what kind of conclusions they would jump to if they were to find a previously wanted man parked outside their houses, but the risk is unavoidable. It's the only way he can think of to get proof of what goes on behind closed doors. He knows from the quick circuit of the house he'd completed when he first arrived fifteen minutes ago that Coach Lahey is the only one currently at home, splayed out on the living room sofa with a half-drunk beer in his hand and some sports programme playing on the television. So Derek waits, his eyes on the pavement.

It only takes another five minutes for Isaac to show up.

The tall boy carries a plastic bag in his hand and walks with his shoulders up to his ears, his light-brown curls bouncing on top of his head. His eyes dart about as if he's on the lookout for an ambush, and with what Stiles told him he'd overheard from Jackson at school, Derek doesn't blame the kid.

As Isaac lets himself into his house, Derek climbs out of his car and walks confidently across the road. He is tempted to move quickly, to keep his head bent low, but he has minor experience in things like this and knows that acting as if he is supposed to be there is the way to go. Like it's something he does all the time, Derek slinks around the side of the house and unlatches the gate that leads to the back garden, where light spills out from the kitchen window to illuminate the overgrown grass as it sways in the gentle breeze. He crouches down beneath the windowsill, his back pressed to the wall, and listens.

"What took you?" a gruff voice asks impatiently. Coach Lahey, Derek assumes.

"There was a line," a second voice replies quietly.

Isaac.

Curious, Derek turns and pushes himself up until he can see through the window. Isaac sets the bag he'd been carrying on the small kitchen table and retrieves some plates from a cupboard. The coach takes a seat at the table and watches his son, giving off an air of menace that Derek would pick up on even without his preternatural senses. The older man is like a tightly wound rubber band, in danger of snapping if pulled too far. Derek only has to look at him for a second to decide that he doesn't like him.

"Whatever," the coach says, rapping his short fingernails on his placemat. "Let's just eat. Get me another drink and open the window, would you? It's too hot in here..."

Isaac's movements are incredibly stiff as he abandons the bag of food and retrieves a cold bottle of beer from the fridge. Clumsily popping off the top, he hands it to his dad and goes over to the window, where Derek has to duck down fast to avoid being seen. The window creaks as it's opened, and Derek waits for Isaac's footsteps get further away before he dares to return to his previous position, his eyes just barely cresting over the sill. Isaac continues to take care of the food, pulling out two white cardboard containers and setting one down in front of his dad and the other atop the placemat on the other side of the table.

"How was school?" Coach Lahey asks, stabbing his fork into his chow mein.

"Fine," Isaac mumbles, leaving his dinner untouched.

"That's it? Just _fine_?"

Isaac stares down at his lap. "I don't know what else you want me to say."

"How about you tell me you actually _did_ something?" Coach Lahey suggests critically. "Made a friend, tried out for a sport, joined a club. Fucking _anything_ would be great! I'm tried of you always being such a disappointment."

"Sorry..." Isaac mumbles, so quietly that Derek almost misses it.

"Speak up, boy!" the contemptible man shouts, slamming his drink down on the tabletop with such force that some of the beer spills out of the bottleneck. The outburst makes Isaac recoil in fear, but his dad either doesn't notice or doesn't care—if Derek were a betting man, he'd put all his money on the second option. Coach Lahey curses under his breath and uses one of the cheap paper napkins that came with their food to wipe up the spill. "And how many times do I have to tell you to look me in the eye when you talk to me? Do I have to punish you again so you finally remember?"

Isaac's head snaps up. "No! I'll be good!"

"Somehow I just don't believe you," the coach says, raising his beer to his lips. He downs the rest of the bottle in one long swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hateful eyes never leaving his son's face. His drink finished, he looks curiously down at the empty bottle and speaks again, his voice suddenly different. Gone is the condescension and the anger, replaced by something saccharine that is even more ominous: "I'm in a charitable mood right now, so I'll give you a chance to prove yourself to me. You won't let me down again tonight, right?" With a smile plastered on his thin lips he waits for Isaac's hesitant nod, then his face turns hard and he hurls the bottle at the wall. It smashes into hundreds of shards that skitter across the floor. "There. Make yourself useful and clean that up."

Isaac scrambles to comply, stepping over the plethora of glass shards with care so as to avoid cutting his feet. He rifles around for something beneath the kitchen sink—a dustpan and brush, Derek finds out when the boy stands again—and begins sweeping up the mess with dishearteningly practised ease. Derek gets the impression that this is a regular occurrence.

The coach continues eating in the background, utterly unconcerned, until Isaac has finished and the glass shards are all deposited in the dustbin.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No, sir..." Isaac says, sitting down again. He still doesn't touch his food.

"You're not eating?" Coach Lahey asks, annoyed again already.

"I'm not hungry."

The coach shakes his head disapprovingly. "This is why I don't usually waste money on you," he mumbles as he reaches across the table and nabs the other container of Chinese food. "Now, back to the topic of school. If I remember correctly, you had a math test last week and today was the day you were supposed to get the results. Where are they?"

"I-in my bag," Isaac stutters, dread emanating off of him in waves.

"Go get them."

The boy does as he's told, vanishing to some other room in the house for a couple of minutes and then returning to the kitchen with a folded-up piece of paper in his shaking hand. The coach snatches it and unfolds it, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he reads through text that is too small for Derek to make out from his vantage point. When the older man reaches the end of the page, his face becomes thunderous.

"An F. You got another F..." Coach Lahey whispers, looking up at his son. He crumples up the test and throws it to the floor. Pushing his chair back from the table with an unpleasant screech, he stands and marches over to his son, not stopping until their faces are an inch apart. His breaths come in harsh angry puffs through his nose, while Isaac stares back wide-eyed, years of abuse having inculcated in him the belief that he is powerless to stop whatever is coming. Derek suspects the boy may even think he deserves it, and the sight of his frightened yet resigned face instils in him the fierce desire to leap through the window and whisk him away before any more hurt can be inflicted upon him. Even so, as much as it pains him, Derek stays where he is.

"Worthless!" Coach Lahey screams. He backhands Isaac across the face and sends him sprawling to the floor with a stifled cry of pain. "If your mother and brother could see the lazy sack of shit you've turned out to be... It's no wonder you don't have any friends. Your brother might've actually been able to beat some sense into you, since anything I do doesn't seem to work, but no. He was killed and I'm stuck with your pathetic ass! Get up!" He reaches down, fists his hand in Isaac's hair, and pulls him back to his feet.

Derek can't stop the low growl the builds in his chest as he watches the disgusting way Isaac's dad acquits himself, but luckily the coach is too busy hurling more invective at his son for either of them to hear him. The older man uses the rough grip he has on Isaac's hair to drag him from the room, so Derek has to rely on his ears to provide a picture of what happens next.

"I warned you what would happen if you failed another exam..."

"No! Please!"

Isaac's vehement protestations are eclipsed by the sound of a door slamming open, and then Derek hears shoes descending a set of stairs. Leaving his spot beneath the kitchen window, he dashes around to the side of the house and lies down on his front so that he can peer in through the tiny window that looks into the basement. The room is dark apart from one small light bulb on what appears to be a workbench, but that doesn't matter—Derek can still see everything as it unfolds.

Coach Lahey wrestles his struggling son over to a large chest freezer and flips open the lid. Derek is for a moment baffled by this turn of events, but in the next moment becomes horrified as he watches the other man force Isaac to climb inside the freezer. The coach slams and holds the lid closed as Isaac immediately starts banging and scratching at it, and from the workbench he snatches up a padlock and locks the freezer up tight. Pocketing the key, he strolls casually back up the stairs with a nauseating smile on his face, the sounds of Isaac's desperate pleading and crying falling on deaf ears.

Knowing now that he has enough proof, Derek leaps to his feet and moves quickly away from the house. He heads to the payphone just down the street and dials 911. The call connects and, without giving his name, he barks out something short about a domestic disturbance taking place at the Laheys' address and hangs up.

All he can do now is wait.

* * *

The cops don't take long to arrive. Derek can hear them from a mile off from his position in the shadows, and he observes hopefully as a uniformed officer and his partner climb out of their cruiser, blue and red lights flashing all the while, and walk up the Laheys' front path. The commotion draws others out of their homes—even, Derek notes, Jackson Whittemore. The neighbours all stand in their front gardens with curious looks on their faces, no doubt eager to get their fill of gossip, but they are all ignored as one of the officers knocks on the front door and waits for movement from within.

Through the frosted glass, Coach Lahey's obfuscated figure can be seen hovering uncertainly on the other side. He doesn't open the door until the officer knocks again, more urgently this time, and even then he only opens it a few inches, just enough to peek through the gap and demand brusquely to know what the hell the police are doing on his property.

"There's been a complaint made," the lead officer responds calmly.

"Regarding?"

"Some strange noises coming from your house."

Derek listens to the conversation as it progresses and is dismayed to find that, although it starts so promisingly, it quickly runs off course. The officers—whom Derek now recognises as Deputy Parrish and his partner, Deputy Andrewartha, who he'd met briefly at the hospital when Lydia first turned—seem to be easily swayed by the coach's unctuous charm. At least Andrewartha is. Parrish is hesitant, but without any real proof apart from the anonymous tip, he is forced to accept the denials and excuses. Coach Lahey is an expert at manipulating people, it seems, which is probably the reason why nothing has been done before now about his treatment of Isaac. If there were ever allegations launched against the coach in the past, Derek suspects the capricious man got out of them scot-free.

Well, not this time.

Just as Andrewartha is laughing with Coach Lahey and apologising for disturbing him, Derek emerges from the shadows, sneaks back around the house to the open kitchen window, and climbs inside. He can still hear Isaac crying in the basement, but the whimpers have quieted enough that they don't carry where they need to in order to be heard by the right people.

Before the cops can leave, Derek darts down into the basement and searches for a way to signal to them that they _are_ needed. His eyes land on a shoddily constructed set of wooden shelves, piled high with heaps of easily breakable ephemera gathered throughout a lifetime. Seeing his opportunity, Derek pushes over these shelves and sends everything spilling to the concrete floor in a cacophonous crash of smashing glass. At this noise, Isaac's cries start up again and the lighthearted talking from the front door cuts off, which Derek takes as his cue to retrace his steps and leap back out into the back garden before he can be found.

Once again crouched beneath the window, he catches his breath and listens with a satisfied smirk on his face as Parrish bulldozes his way inside the house. He descends into the basement, curses loudly, and yells for Andrewartha to detain the coach.

"Got you..." Derek says quietly to himself.

* * *

Down at the station, Isaac sits shellshocked outside of the sheriff's office, a cooling cup of coffee clutched in his shaking hands. He still can't quite believe he's free. He'd been resigned to spending yet another long, cold night immured down in the basement, so resigned that his brain hadn't known right away how to process the events that happened after he'd heard the crash. All he knew was that he was trapped with tears tracking silently down his cheeks, and then in the next moment he was being pulled up and out of the freezer by Deputy Parrish. As he was escorted out of his house, he'd seen his dad slumped in the back of a police cruiser, his face the picture of belligerence as he glared daggers through the glass. In a reaction that scared him and made him feel crazy, when he was sitting in the back of the ambulance and having his injuries seen to, Isaac had burst out laughing, so hard that he nearly couldn't breathe, until his laughter turned suddenly to sobs. The paramedic, an affable man with salt-and-pepper hair and a comforting presence, assured him that it was a perfectly normal reaction.

Now, with a Band-Aid on his cheek and his bloodied fingernails disinfected and bandaged, Isaac waits. He hasn't said a single word to anyone since arriving at the station and Parrish had pushed him down into his uncomfortable chair. The reality of his situation is just too overwhelming for him to hold a conversation, so he just sits there.

Slowly, he raises his hand and takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, just to have something to do. He isn't sure of what will happen to him. As far as he knows his dad is his only living relative, so where he will stay from now on is a mystery. He knows that's what everyone is talking about around him, that they're all spitting out suggestions of foster care and whatever else as they hunt for the necessary paperwork and call around for a social worker. He doesn't really care. It doesn't matter to him where he ends up, because anything would be an improvement over the torment of his dad, even simple indifference.

Parrish reappears then, taking the seat next to him.

"Hey, how're you doing?" the deputy asks with a gentle smile.

"Fine, I guess," is Isaac's succinct reply.

"This is a lot, huh?"

"Mmm..."

"The coffee's crap around here, isn't it?" Parrish chuckles, slumping down in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. Isaac appreciates the attempt to keep things casual but doesn't respond as Parrish makes small talk, just keeps his eyes focused on the oddly shaped black spec that mars the bottom of the wall across from him.

It looks kind of like a doughnut.

"A couple of the guys and I have asked several times to get something better, but that hasn't happened yet," Parrish continues, apparently not finding Isaac's diffidence off-putting. "I usually just go to a coffee shop in town, if I'm not working a case or something and can spare the time. The one on Main St. does the _best_ cinnamon rolls. Have you tried them? If not then you definitely should. I don't have much of a sweet tooth but it's worth making the trek for those alone. They'll change your life, I swear."

Parrish sits with Isaac until it's time to go inside the sheriff's office and give his statement, at which point Isaac is surprised to find himself reluctant to part ways with him. He hasn't wanted to be around anyone else for years—and his dad would've put a stop to it even if he had—so the sudden and strange connection he feels with the deputy throws him for a loop. Isaac wants Parrish to stay, but because he lacks the confidence to ask for what he wants, he just hovers outside the door to the sheriff's office and hates himself for his meekness. Then, in a rare stroke of good fortune, Parrish offers to accompany him inside. Isaac stares at him, grateful but unable to express it, and nods shakily. Feeling a little less insecure now, he enters the office and lowers himself into the chair the sheriff gestures toward. Parrish pulls another chair close to his and sits down, too, while the sheriff fumbles about with some paperwork on his desk. When he has things sorted, the older man asks, with kindness that seems forced, to recount the events of the night.

Isaac glances one last time at Parrish, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

* * *

By the time he has finished telling Sheriff Stilinski about all the quotidian terrors he'd suffered for years at the hands of his father, Isaac is in tears for the third time that night. Unlike in the ambulance, they're quiet tears this time, running down his cheeks and dripping down onto his lap. As he'd talked, the sheriff wrote everything down and took frequent sips from the coffee cup on his desk, which drew judgemental stares from Parrish that confused Isaac greatly. When the last word has been written down, Sheriff Stilinski sends both of them from the room, where Isaac is shepherded by Parrish through the bullpen and into one of the interrogation rooms in the back.

"It's just to give you some privacy," the deputy says.

"Oh," Isaac responds. "Alright."

"We're waiting on the social worker to get here, and then we'll try to figure out where you'll be staying," Parrish explains, sitting on the edge of the metal table that's screwed into the floor in the middle of the room. "This is probably scary, I know, but it'll be fine. You're old enough to have a say in where you end up, so if you don't like something or if you have an idea you want to float past us, just say so and we'll see what we can do. Does that sound OK?"

"Yeah, I guess..."

"Cool. She should be here soon."

"How much does she know?"

"Right now she just knows what we knew right after we found you, but she'll be given a copy of everything you said in the sheriff's office when she gets here," Parrish apprises, moving from his spot to take one of the chairs that are positioned on either side of the table. He leans his elbow on the table and draws circles on the shiny metal surface with his index finger. "She needs your full history in order to help us find the best fit for you."

Isaac joins the deputy, wanting to get off of his feet because he'd exerted a lot of energy when he was locked in the freezer and he feels tired now. A few minutes later, there comes a knock at the door, and then a rather corpulent woman enters. She has long black hair and a wide smile, and carries a thick stack of folders under one arm.

"Sorry for the wait," she says as she deposits the folders on the table. She approaches Isaac cautiously, like he's a scared animal who could lash out at the slightest provocation, and extends a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Isaac. My names Mariana Jones, but you can just call me Mari."

"Hi," Isaac says. He doesn't shake her hand.

Taking it in stride, Mariana thanks Parrish when he pulls out a chair for her. "Now, this is quite a long process. There's no quick answer, I'm afraid, but I promise you I'll try my hardest to match you with a good foster family. Do you have any preference, maybe a pet you're allergic to or something? That might help us narrow down our options a bit."

"No drinking," Isaac blurts out.

"Yes, I think we can accommodate you there. Anything else?"

Isaac shakes his head.

"Right then, let's see here..."

Mariana and Parrish skim over all the prospective foster families and pick out the ones they think are viable. They slide them across the table for Isaac to look over, neither of them showing disappointment when Isaac dismisses them all, until he says no to the final family that Mari had brought with her and they've run out of options.

"Well, it seems we've hit a bit of a wall here," the woman muses.

"Sorry..." Isaac mumbles.

"No, it's fine," Mariana reassures, still smiling. "These are just the families whose files I could get on such short notice. There are still a lot of others out there that could work. The only thing is we don't really have anywhere for you to go tonight..."

Parrish looks thoughtfully at the discarded files. "What if Isaac came home with me?" he blurts, surprising his two companions.

Mariana recovers swiftly. "What do you mean?"

"If it's alright with Isaac, he could stay in my guest room until we find a more permanent solution," Parrish suggests, speaking fast. "I have a pretty busy schedule so I'm not home a lot, and we'd have to get him some stuff, clothes, toiletries and the like, but he'd be safe there and I'd be more than happy to have him."

Mariana turns to the boy in question. "What do you think about that, Isaac?"

Hopefully, Isaac croaks out, "That sounds good."

Mariana purses her lips as she thinks. "Well, I'd have to come with you to make sure it's a suitable environment before I left him with you, but I don't really see a problem," she says, her smile widening when she sees Isaac's face light up a little bit, showing the first positive emotion he's had since she'd arrived. "Alright, it's sorted. C'mon hun, it's late and I'm sure you're tired. Let's get this over with so you can get some much-needed rest."

With Parrish's arm around his shoulders, Isaac follows Mariana out of the station, seeing for the first time in a long time a light at the end of the tunnel.


	15. Be Careful What You Wish For

_\- Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011 -_

Jordan Parrish lies awake for half an hour before getting out of bed, his mind turning over the events of the past twelve hours again and again. When he, Isaac and Mariana had arrived back at his apartment the previous evening, he was delighted when it quickly got Mariana’s stamp of approval. The place isn’t grandiose at all, but it’s moderately sized and well-kept, with an open floor plan for the kitchen and living room and a hallway that leads to one master bedroom, one guest bedroom, and one decent bathroom. The rent was surprisingly cheap when he’d happened across it during his search a couple of years ago, when he was almost finished with the academy and was looking to finally move out of his parents’ place in time for the new job that was awaiting him. The living room is a sizeable space comprised of smooth hardwood flooring and beige wallpaper, in which he’d put a black-leather sofa, his old bookcase from home, and a cherry-wood coffee table and matching entertainment system. Completing this is his 62-inch flatscreen television. He spends most of what free time he gets parked in front of it, playing video games and justifying to himself the extravagant purchases of the latest games consoles and the TV itself.

The colour scheme continues in the kitchen.

In the middle of the room is a small square table, topped with white-marble formica that matches all the countertops. His combination fridge-freezer and his dishwasher were both housewarming gifts from his parents, and with those and the white cupboards that run along the walls he has more than enough storage space, something that will come in handy now that there will be a second person living in the apartment, if only temporarily.

Speaking of Isaac, Parrish wonders how the kid slept.

If he slept at all.

Glancing at the digital clock on his nightstand and seeing that it’s just gone 7:30 a.m., Parrish decides that he’s had enough of being a slugabed and throws back his forest-green sheets. Getting to his feet, he stretches and heads out into the hall, pausing on his way to make a fresh pot of coffee to press his ear to the guest room door. He hears no sound on the other side and assumes that Isaac is still sleeping. Leaving the boy to it, Parrish carries on down the hall and rubs tiredly at his eyes as he enters the kitchen. After switching on the coffee machine, he gets a mug out from one of the cupboards and only registers that he isn’t alone when he turns back around.

Isaac sits with his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his palm. The bags beneath his eyes are larger than any Parrish has ever seen, and that includes the ones he’s seen in the mirror after the many times he’s gone without sleep, usually because he was needed for some big emergency in town. Thankfully, things have calmed down now that Peter Hale and Kate Argent are dead and the murders have stopped, and he has been able to catch up on all the sleep he’d missed while working that case those hellish weeks. After Mariana had given his apartment her approval and left the previous evening, Parrish was hoping that, now that his dad isn’t there to loom imperiously over him, Isaac would be in for a restful sleep and would emerge rejuvenated the following morning. It appears things won’t be quite that easy.

Casually, Parrish pulls out a second mug from the cupboard, just in time for the coffee machine to ding loudly, announcing that it’s ready to go. "Did you sleep alright?" he asks over his shoulder as he fills the two mugs, even though he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, I guess," Isaac replies.

Parrish places a mug in front of the boy. "What do you think?"

"Of what?"

"Of this place, and of your room, specifically," Parrish elaborates, joining Isaac at the table. He sits down opposite him and blows gently across his hot coffee before taking a cautious sip. "I have today off, so if you don’t like something we can get it sorted, if you want."

"It’s fine. I’m not fussy or anything."

Parrish inclines his head. "Didn’t think you were. But still, you like everything OK?"

"Yeah..."

"Good," Parrish grins. "I’m glad."

"Me, too," Isaac mumbles, picking up his own mug and reading the text printed on the side in big blood-red letters, one of those stupid ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ mantras he’d seen everywhere a couple of years back. Biting at his lip, he tries a couple of times to say something more but can’t find the correct words right away. Parrish waits patiently until he does: "I wanted to... I just wanted to say thank you. For, y’know, getting me out of there and letting me stay here."

"You’re welcome, but I’m not the person you should be thanking for your rescue," Parrish responds, making Isaac look up curiously. "You should thank Stiles Stilinski, since he’s the one who alerted me that there was something going on in the first place. I also have my suspicions about who made the call that got me and my partner out to your house last night, though I can’t be sure. I’ll have to introduce you to him sometime, when you’re ready. I think you’ll get on well." At Isaac’s hesitant nod, Parrish dares to get up from his seat and walk around the table. He slings his arm around Isaac’s shoulders in a half hug and feels a strong sense of gratitude in his chest when the kid trusts him enough to allow it. In fact, instead of shying away, Isaac leans into him, though that may just be due to exhaustion. "Someone should’ve gotten you out of that house a long time ago. How it was allowed to go on for so long, I’ll never know, but you’re safe now and I guess that’s all that matters."

Isaac says nothing, nor does he move from under Parrish’s arm. He just sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, a disgusted expression forming on his face as the hot bitter liquid goes down his throat. "Would it be possible to get some sugar for this, and maybe some milk, too?" he asks politely, looking up at Parrish from beneath his eyelashes.

"Oh, of course!" the deputy replies. "Sorry, I should’ve asked."

He gets the milk from the fridge and the sugar bowl from the cupboard and sets them on the table in front of Isaac. "Help yourself."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

They drink their coffee in surprisingly companionable silence, as if it’s something they’ve done many times before, until Parrish finishes his and puts his mug in the dishwasher. "I’m gonna go get showered and dressed," he says, the last remnants of sleep fading away thanks to the caffeine now coursing through his system. "Then, if you’re up for it, we’ll see about going over to your place to get some of your things so you can get settled in better. S’that sound OK?" When Isaac gives his assent, Parrish turns on his heel and heads for his apartment’s only bathroom. He’s never had to share it before, so it will be a learning curve, especially in the mornings when he’s getting ready for work and Isaac for school. But he knows it’ll be worth it.

Once he's all clean and ready, Parrish grabs his phone from his bedroom and heads back out into the living room. He finds Isaac standing in front of the bookshelf, inquisitively eyeing the expansive selection. "Feel free," Parrish offers, smiling sheepishly when the boy jumps. "Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. But seriously, mi casa es tu casa, and all that. If you see something that looks interesting—a book, a video game, whatever—feel free to try it out. You don’t need to ask permission. That goes for all the food in the kitchen, too."

"Thanks," Isaac says timidly.

"Bathroom’s free. If you wanna go get ready, we can go get your stuff."

Isaac casts his eyes down to the floor. "I don’t... I don’t have anything to wear."

"Oh, duh!" Parrish exclaims, smacking himself on the forehead and laughing at his own idiocy. "Come on, you can borrow something of mine for today." He leads Isaac into his bedroom and, after a quick search through his dresser, comes up with a pair of jeans he hardly ever wears and a plain black T-shirt. "Here. They might be a bit small since you’re so tall, but they should do the job well enough. Let me know if they don’t and I’ll find you something else."

Isaac takes the garments and scurries from the room.

"Take your time!" Parrish calls after him.

* * *

Stiles wakes up slowly, and the first thing his somnolent brain can process is that he’s cold. Very, _very_ cold. To fight this, he tries to pull up his duvet and snuggle into a cocoon of warmth, but he can’t move his hands or his legs, and this is revelation that has him hurtling the rest of the way to awareness, his eyes snapping open in alarm. He takes in what he can discern of his surroundings with foreboding and a rapidly building sense of distress.

He sits tied to a rickety chair in a large, dimly lit room. Thick rope binds his ankles to the chair legs and his arms behind his back, abrading his skin as he tests the bonds and finds to his dismay that the knots are tied so expertly that they preclude any chance of escape. Fighting the panic that suffuses through his entire body, he gives up trying and, which a series of deep breaths, refocuses and looks more closely at everything around him. The air carries on it the repellent stench of motor oil and damp and mould, and there are two rows of large windows to his left and to his right, so high up that Stiles presumes they are close to the ceiling. These windows are so encrusted with dirt that they provide very little light, and what illumination they do permit is harsh, yellow and artificial-looking, maybe from some street lamps. The light just barely enables him to see from one side of the room to the other and into the shadowy corners, where he sees no one else. Inside this strange room, he’s completely by himself.

Whether that’s a good thing or not, he doesn’t know.

The room only has one entrance, a large metal door to his left. Every single horror movie that Stiles has seen leads him to conclude that this door is locked, not that it matters. He can’t get over to it in his current state anyway. Using the few salient facts he has gathered, Stiles tries to put together a decent picture of where he is. His best guess is some warehouse, still—he hopes—in Beacon Hills but long abandoned, where there isn’t a chance of his cries for help being heard.

He tests that theory.

"Hello?! Anybody?!" he yells, as loudly as he can.

Predictably, the echoes of his voice fade and leave nothing but silence.

Next question: How did he get here?

The last thing Stiles remembers is talking to Melissa before he got into bed.

And then... Nothing.

"Quite the quandary you’ve got yourself in, Stiles," he mutters, fidgeting when the muscles of his arms and legs start to ache from being held for so long in one position. He breathes through the discomfort and flexes his hands to restore some of the blood flow that is being cut off by the ropes, but it isn’t very effective. With nothing else to do, Stiles takes stock of his surroundings one more time, hoping that maybe he’ll spot something he’d missed before.

Around the room is the detritus of years long past:

Wooden boxes with dirty white cloths draped half across them are scattered around the perimeter of the room. Craning his neck, Stiles looks behind him and sees that one of these boxes is splintered open, but he can’t discern anything at all from the shapeless black mass that spills out onto the floor. Three thick rusty chains hang from long I-beams that run from one wall to the other, just above the smashed windows, while cockroaches scuttle around the cold concrete floor, one of which is brave enough to run right over Stiles’ foot and elicit from him an unmanly yelp. And, way up high in one of the corners, a small red light blinks on and off in a constant pattern. Stiles stares uncomprehendingly up at this light, until something clicks into place in his mind and he realises just what this new discovery is:

A camera.

He’s being filmed.

A live feed? Or is it recording to a tape or something?

Either way, the person who put him here wants to watch, possibly so they can get their rocks off. Sickened to his stomach by this thought, Stiles tries to put it out of his mind and looks away from the camera, refusing to give his abductor the satisfaction of seeing how much he is affected by all of this. With nothing else to do, he sits and listens to the silence.

He still can’t hear anything—no passing cars, no footsteps, not even far off in the distance—which works wonders to make him feel even more unnerved and isolated than he already did. He wonders if anyone has even noticed yet that he’s missing. Assuming that it’s only been a few hours and he wasn’t unconscious for a whole day, it’s unlikely.

No one will be coming to save him anytime soon.

"Great..." Stiles says under his breath.

Then, when he slumps down defeated, from one of the chair’s back legs he hears an ominous creaking sound that has him jerking up straight again in surprise. After a moment of contemplation, he leans his weight back again, deliberately now, and hears the creaking for a second time, like the leg is in danger of snapping under the pressure.

His fecund mind coming to the rescue, Stiles jumps on this potential opportunity and increases the pressure.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until the chair leg snaps abruptly and he falls sideways and cracks the side of his head on the floor. "Fuck!" he cries out hoarsely, trying to blink past the stars flashing behind his eyelids. He lies there as the room slowly swims back into focus, his head pounding something fierce and his left arm protesting the position it’s in, squished and bent at an awkward angle beneath his side. When the worst of the dizziness has passed, Stiles wiggles in place and finds to his amazement that the leg wasn’t the only part of the chair that broke during the fall. He wasn’t really expecting to find success, but the piece of the chair his hands were tied to is now loose, enabling him to slide them free of it. They’re still bound to each other behind his back, but it’s a small improvement that he’ll gladly take.

Now that he is able to move a bit more, Stiles throws his weight forward in small increments, until he has twisted himself away from the chair as much as he can. His ankles are still tied to the chair legs, but now that he’s no longer held firmly in place he is able to wiggle the rope down the wood, looking somewhat like a fish flopping around on dry land, until he is completely separated from the chair. The loops of rope which bind his ankles become loose without the wood also within their grasp, keeping them taut, and he manages to kick them off and get his legs free altogether. Now, the only parts of him still bound are his hands behind his back.

"Progress..." he says to himself.

Managing to get up onto his knees and then to his feet, Stiles catches his breath and then moves cautiously around the room. He steps up to the splintered box and inspects its contents more closely, swearing in vexation when all he finds is a bunch of off-colour clothes that even he knows are long out of fashion.

Pissed off now instead of scared, Stiles turns away from the box after giving it a kick and howls in pain when something slices into the bottom of his foot. Falling on his ass out of shock, Stiles hisses through his teeth as he examines the fresh cut and swears up a storm when he sees the blood that flows freely from it. Pressing the sole of his foot to his other leg to staunch it, he searches the ground around him and eventually finds the thing that caused this injury—a broken piece of glass, probably from one of the windows.

Giving it a glare, Stiles is about to move on from it when a thought strikes him:

To make the cut it did, the glass shard has to be pretty sharp.

Maybe sharp enough to cut through rope.

Armed with this theory, Stiles shuffles closer to the shard, turns his back to it, and searches for it blindly with his tied hands. His fingers brush over dirt, some sere leaves and another cockroach, until finally they dance across the smooth surface of the shard. Stiles grabs it carefully and, bending his wrist awkwardly until he feels the jagged edge of the glass rub up against the rope, begins moving it back and forth in hopes of cutting through his restraints. Due to the angle and the fact that he’s working blind, he drops the shard several times before he makes some headway and the first loop of rope is cut in half.

Spurred on by this small victory, Stiles keeps going until the last loop is severed and the rope falls to the ground, useless. Dropping the glass, too, he gets to his feet again and stretches out all the muscles of his body, moving his shoulders in circles and rubbing at his sore wrists to help restore his circulation. Once he’s feeling as well as he can possibly feel under the circumstances, Stiles walks over to the huge metal door that serves as the room’s only exit and tries the handle. Predictably, it doesn’t turn, but it isn’t completely secure, either. It’s loose, so he keeps on jostling it in hopes of loosening it more and more, until it breaks open. Any progress he makes is difficult to judge, but a minute soon passes and the handle stays stubbornly attached, so he guesses that he didn’t really make any at all.

Not one to go down without a fight, Stiles searches for a different tactic.

He scans the room for something he can smash against the door handle but finds nothing he thinks would be study enough. The only things he sees that could work are the thick chains that hang from the ceiling, but even when jumping as high as he can he is unable to reach them. Frustrated, he glares at them as if this is all their fault and suddenly feels overcome with an odd sensation he has never felt before. It leaves him reeling, and he has to rest a hand against the wall to keep himself standing as it mercifully passes.

Attributing this to his head injury, Stiles is about to repeat his search when he hears something, an unpleasant scraping sound akin to nails on a chalkboard. Covering his ears, he startles when the chain he had been trying to reach detaches from the I-beam and falls with a jingly crash. He stares at it where it now lies coiled on the ground and nudges it with his toe, as if it will come to life and attack him, and then he snaps it up.

Balling the metal links up in his hand, Stiles brings it down with as much strength as he can muster on the door handle, again and again, and finds new energy from someplace deep inside of himself when he sees the handle bending under the onslaught. Then, with a final hit, the handle clatters to the floor and the door opens the smallest fraction, the hinges creaking ominously. Keeping the chain in hand as a weapon, Stiles wrenches the door the rest of the way open and steps outside, only to stop immediately in his tracks when he sees what is waiting for him.

A large van is parked a few feet away, the doors at the back open wide to reveal Chris and Gerard Argent sitting there, in front of a large computer monitor. When Chris removes his headphones and clambers out of the van, Stiles sees on the screen the interior of the warehouse, cluing him in to what this whole thing was really about.

"What. The. _Fuck_ ," he gawks. "This was all some elaborate _test_?!"

"Yes, it was," Chris replies patiently.

"I repeat: What the fuck?!"

With a hand on his shoulder, Chris ushers the angry boy into the back of the van and into the seat he had just vacated. From beneath it he extracts a fully stocked first aid kit and, while he cleans and bandages the cut on the bottom of Stiles’ foot, he begins explaining the purpose of the test. "Every hunter must go through something like this when they’re still a novice, to prove they have what it takes to make it through the later stages," he apprises, dabbing some antiseptic on a wad of cotton wool. He runs it a couple of times over the cut and gentles his touches when Stiles releases a quiet noise of pain. "Hunting is incredibly dangerous, and if you still choose to pursue it after tonight, it will probably lead to situations much worse than what we just put you through. So, if someone fails this test, that’s it—their training is over. But you passed. With flying colours, I might add. You showed that you could remain judicious under pressure, and actually got yourself free much quicker than I thought you would."

"Really?" Stiles asks, his anger abating in light of this approbation.

"Really. You did it faster than I did back in the day, and while you probably won’t appreciate the comparison, the only person I’ve known who actually got out of it faster than you was my sister." Chris turns to Gerard. "Right, dad?"

"Right," the older man concurs, his face blank.

Stiles is speechless. "Huh."

"OK, I think you’re all set," Chris says, using a small piece of medical tape to stick down the bandage now wrapped around Stiles’ foot. Stiles finds that the cut doesn’t sting as much anymore, is simply a bit uncomfortable when, under Chris’ instruction, he rests his foot on the floor of the van and tentatively puts some pressure on it. "Good?" Chris asks, standing when Stiles nods. "Alright then... I guess we’re done for tonight. Again, you did very well. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure what to expect when you asked me to train you, but I have to say I’m impressed, and I’m looking forward to seeing what else you’ve got up your sleeve."

Stiles’ face heats up. "Thanks."

"We’ll take you home now. We wouldn’t want anyone to worry."

Taking his cue, Gerard clambers into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine.

"Who else knew you’d be doing this?" Stiles asks Chris.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, Derek and Melissa. I can’t imagine they’d be that hot on the idea."

Chris chuckles. "They weren’t, but Derek knew how serious you were about this and explained that to Melissa. They didn’t like it, but they didn’t object. They’re actually both waiting up for you right now, to make sure it went alright, and probably to tear me a new one if it didn’t."

"Good thing it did then."

"Yes... Good thing, indeed."


	16. Grumpy Alphas and a Helping Hand

_\- Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011 -_

Stiles arrives home at just gone 2 a.m. to find the living room light still on, a strange sight considering the time. Chris escorts him inside, while Gerard remains in the van to clean up the blood that got on the floor from Stiles’ foot. Chris sticks close to Stiles’ side as they make their way up the front path, his hand held out as if to catch him should he fall. The cut does make walking a little difficult, so Stiles can’t really fault him for it. As soon as he opens the front door and crosses over the threshold, he is accosted by a worried and irritable Derek, who checks him over from head to toe for injuries. When Derek spots the bandage on Stiles’ bare foot, he levels Chris with a look so baleful that the hunter chooses to hang back a little, his hands raised defensively.

“What happened?!” Derek demands gruffly.

“Derek, calm down. It’s nothing major, just a cut from a piece of glass I accidentally stepped on and a bump on the head,” Stiles placates, putting his hands on Derek’s chest. Through his palms he can feel the vibrations of the wolf’s barely audible growling, and when Derek looks down at him, expression still stormy, he strokes his thumbs back and forth over stonelike pectorals and smiles up at him softly. “Honestly, I’m fine. Tired, and a little pissed at having this sprung on me without any warning, but I guess I did kinda ask for it. So yeah, I’m fine.”

Huffing disbelievingly, Derek drags Stiles through to the living room and pushes him down on the sofa, next to where Melissa still sits. He looks at her expectantly when she doesn’t move. “Well?” he says impatiently, gesturing emphatically toward Stiles. “Check him over.”

“I can speak for myself, y’know...” Stiles pouts.

Fighting a smile, Melissa gets to work, pulling a medical kit from beneath the sofa and examining the job Chris had done taking care of Stiles’ foot. She unwraps the bandage and hums her approval when she sees that it’s already been disinfected. “I don’t see anything too major here,” she says, taping the bandage back down. “It’s a pretty small cut, all things considered, and it’ll heal pretty fast.”

Stiles smirks up at Derek as if to say, “I told you so.”

“But,” Melissa continues, wiping the smirk off of his face. “It’s the bump I’m concerned with.”

For the next couple of minutes she runs through a series of tests to work out whether or not Stiles has a concussion. Derek paces in front of the coffee table while he waits for her verdict, glancing every now and then at Chris and muttering something under his breath that draws Stiles’ attention away from Melissa. He thinks he hears something about this being all Chris’ fault and about stupid, stubborn teenage boys, before Melissa touches the side of his head and rips his attention back to her with a pang of pain. “Ouch!” he hisses, leaning away from her touch.

“Oh, hush,” Melissa says, pulling him back. “Just stay still.”

Stiles tries his best to follow orders and keeps any further noises of pain held tight behind his teeth when he sees Derek watching him with a frown. He doesn’t want to do anything to further his wolf’s worry. Melissa prods delicately at the small bump that has already formed on the left side of Stiles’ forehead, where pale skin is slowly turning an unpleasant mottled purple, and then hums quietly to herself as she stands. Stiles finds himself looking crosseyed at her index finger when he starts to get up, too.

“Nope, I’m not done with you yet, young man. Don’t. Move,” Melissa commands, her expression stern. She waits until Stiles has parked his ass back on the sofa to head into the kitchen, where she stays for almost a full minute before returning with an ice pack in hand. “Here, keep this against your head to help the swelling while I talk to Chris.” She glances over her shoulder at Derek. “Make sure he doesn’t move from this spot, alright?”

Derek nods, and then Melissa gestures for Chris to join her in the dining room and shuts the door when they’re both inside, giving them some privacy. Stiles stares at the closed door until he feels the sofa dip next to him as Derek sits down.

“Here, let me,” the wolf says, taking the ice pack.

Stiles hadn’t even noticed his hand going numb, and he stares down at his fingers and flexes them as the feeling gradually returns with a not-unpleasant tingly sensation. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Derek presses the ice pack gently against his forehead and makes him jump, his head snapping up in surprise. He finds that Derek is focused on his work, his mouth a thin line. Stiles wants to lean in and kiss the tension away, but the look in Derek’s eyes stops him from doing so. It tells him clearly what’s going on in Derek’s head, all the thoughts and emotions that are at war with each other, but there are two emotions that stand out from all the rest. One of them is fear, and the other...

“You’re angry,” Stiles states. “Tell me why.”

Derek waits a beat before replying, his gaze flicking briefly down to meet Stiles’ before returning to the ice pack. “You’re a goddamn idiot,” he bites out, startling his companion with the passion in his voice. He swallows tightly and takes the ice pack away for a second to check the bump on Stiles’ head, then returns it and speaks again. He keeps his face blank, but his voice is quiet and makes plain to Stiles just how much he means everything he says. “This whole hunter thing... I know that you’re too stubborn for me to dissuade you from it, and I also know that I can’t _make_ you stop, but I don’t like it. At all, and this is why. It’s stupid. You’re getting yourself hurt, even after what you promised me last week when Victoria pointed her gun at me and you stepped in between us, and for what? To prove a point? A point that I’ve already said you don’t need to prove, I might add. Not to me...”

Stiles sighs and removes the ice pack from Derek’s hand. Tossing it onto the coffee table, he turns sideways in his seat, while still being mindful of his foot, and uses his index finger to tilt Derek’s chin up so their eyes meet. “I’m not trying to prove a point to you, or to anyone else,” he says. “I thought I’d explained myself well enough before, but I guess not.”

“Then...what _are_ you trying to do?”

“I’m doing this because I need to prove it to _myself_. That’s why. I know you still have reservations, and I’m grateful for them because I know where those reservations come from, but please try to understand. Apart from a couple of moments of blind luck, I could barely do anything when Peter was threatening to kill us all, especially not when he tried to do what he tried to do to me. If it weren’t for Lydia... Well, he would’ve succeeded.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” Derek interjects. “I don’t think it was just ‘blind luck’ when you knocked Peter out with a shovel, or when you smashed that jar of acid over his head. _Or_ when you confronted Kate and chased her off when she was holding me captive. None of that was blind luck. I’m trying to understand, and I do get it a little, but you did just fine back then. I don’t see why this is necessary.”

“Thanks, I guess, but I still need to do this.”

“Why?”

“What if someone else comes along in the future and threatens us? What then? I’m not gonna be able to do much to help unless I make a change, and training with Chris is that change. It’ll make it so that I can better protect the pack and you if I need to, like I know you’ll try your best to protect me. Besides, it’s not like after Chris has taught me everything he can that I’m gonna make it my job to go around the whole country, hunting down rouge werewolves every day. I’m gonna stay right here, in this pack and with you, hopefully without a reason to use those skills. But I need to have them, just in case. If nothing else than for my own peace of mind.”

“But—“

“And don’t you think it’s better that I get hurt a little now, under controlled circumstances, than get hurt a lot worse later on because I was unprepared?”

“I suppose, but—“

“Ah, ah! Nope,” Stiles insists, covering Derek’s mouth with his hand. The glare he gets in return has his lips curling up in a smile. “It’s already decided, done and dusted, set in stone, et cetera, et cetera. But, if it will stop you worrying your pretty little head, maybe I’ll let you accompany me to my training sessions so that you can make sure nothing bad happens. Sound good?” Derek continues to glare. “Good. I’m so glad you could come around.”

The smile still on Stiles’ lips transforms into a horrified grimace when Derek sticks his tongue out and slobbers all over his palm. “Ew, _seriously_?! Was that really necessary?” Stiles whines, ripping his hand away and wiping the wolf’s saliva off on the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. “If you’re gonna lick me you could at least choose a different body part...”

Derek smirks. “Maybe later, when you’ve healed.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes playfully. “So, are we good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

A few minutes later, Melissa and Chris come out of the dining room.

“Everything alright?” Stiles asks them.

“Yeah, we came to an agreement,” Melissa replies, examining the bump on Stiles’ head. “Chris’ll continue training you, but he has to run things past me first if he wants to pull any more stunts on you like he did tonight. I think you’ll be fine, but that bump still looks a bit nasty. I wouldn’t ordinarily do this but this is a special circumstance, and you’ve already missed a lot of sleep tonight, so I’m gonna keep you home from school tomorrow just to make sure. Don’t go getting excited, mind. I mean it when I say I’ll be keeping you _home_. I want you to rest up, preferably in bed, but if you get bored and want to come downstairs to watch TV in here or something, then that’s fine, too. Just nothing that’ll exert too much energy, OK?”

“I think I can do that,” Stiles accepts.

“Good. Now, I have a shift at the hospital starting soon, so I’m gonna get some sleep and I think you should as well.” Melissa turns to Derek and Chris and shoos them out into the foyer. “Which means that you two had better get going.”

Stiles gets up from the sofa and hobbles after them.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Chris says, opening the front door.

“Bye!” Stiles yells after him with a wave.

Once the hunter has climbed into the van and driven off with Gerard, Stiles turns to Derek, who hovers dilatorily by the door. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says, feeling a little awkward interacting with the alpha when Melissa is watching them so closely, waiting for Derek to leave so that she can lock up.

Derek nods. “Yeah... I can come over with lunch, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

When Derek continues to linger, Stiles rolls his eyes and moves forward to do what he’d wanted to do back on the sofa. He plants a chaste kiss on Derek’s lips and steps back again before Derek has a chance to respond, laughing quietly when he sees the stunned expression on his face. His eyes are wide and innocent-looking, his mouth is parted slightly, and a faint blush appears on his cheeks, just visible through his beard.

Pulling himself together after Melissa coughs pointedly, Derek offers Stiles a shy smile before finally leaving. Stiles watches him go, until Melissa shuts and locks the door and obscures his view of Derek’s back.

“That man is smitten,” Melissa comments as she hangs up her keys.

“You think so?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

“I know so. It’s very cute.”

Stiles looks down with a grin. “Yeah... He is.”

* * *

Just like Melissa wanted, Stiles spends the morning catching up on sleep and doesn’t move from his bed until it’s nearing midday. He feels his injuries more profoundly than he did last night, his head and side twinging painfully as he descends the stairs in search of something to assuage the dryness of his throat. With a tall glass of orange juice in hand, he settles himself amid a pile of blankets on the living room sofa and watches episodes of _Friends_ , the show he always goes to whenever he is feeling low, physically or mentally.

An hour later, at 12:45 p.m., Derek arrives as promised, carrying a clear Tupperware container with him. “Hey,” he greets, setting the container on the coffee table and sitting down carefully next to Stiles. He smiles at his messy blanket cocoon. “How’re you feeling?”

“Alright, I guess. Hungry, though,” Stiles grins.

“Good thing I came prepared.”

Derek opens the Tupperware container and pulls out two flat square-shaped objects covered in foil. He hands one of them to Stiles. “Here,” he says, choosing to wait to unwrap his and instead covertly watching as Stiles peels off the foil and stares down at the sandwich revealed within. Made with soft white bread, it’s stuffed full of various meats—roast chicken, sliced ham and bacon—as well as lettuce and sliced tomatoes and a generous spreading of butter, mayonnaise and mustard. “I hope it’s alright. I asked Melissa this morning what you liked and couldn’t choose between everything she gave me, so... I just went with all of it.”

“You made this?” Stiles enquires.

“Yeah...”

“Wow.”

“Is it... Is it OK? I can go get something else if you don’t want it.”

“It’s great, Sourwolf. Seriously, thank you.”

Stiles picks up one half of his sandwich and takes a big bite to prove it. “See? Delicious!” he grins, a bit of mayonnaise smeared by the corner of his lips. Derek reaches forward to wipe it off and sucks his thumb into his mouth, then looks embarrassedly down at his lap when Stiles waggles his eyebrows suggestively. When the playful mood passes, they eat their lunch and toss the balled-up foil back inside the Tupperware container.

Derek snaps the lid back on and leans back into the sofa. “So, did that help?”

“Yup. Although, if you really want to help me feel better...”

Derek narrows his eyes when Stiles trails off.

“What?” he asks apprehensively.

Stiles opens up his blanket cocoon and shivers theatrically. “It’s a little cold today, so...you could get on in here, purely to keep me warm, of course,” he finishes, biting his bottom lip. “That’d really help to make me feel better.”

“I’m not really the cuddling type, Stiles.”

“What about the motel?” Stiles asks with a pout.

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It just was.”

“You wanna know what I think? I think you _are_ the cuddling type, but you hide it,” Stiles expounds shrewdly. When Derek doesn’t dispute this, he knows he’s right on the money and keeps going, a mischievous grin stretching his lips. “You gotta keep up that dark and mysterious thing you’ve established for yourself, right? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret. To everyone else you can keep pretending to be the stoic alpha, but I see right through you. Always have. When it comes down to it, you’re just a great big softie, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of coming over here and keeping me company, and you _definitely_ wouldn’t have made me lunch yourself. So get in here before I’m forced to come over there and snuggle you to death. Don’t test me, Sourwolf. I’ll do it!”

Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t comply until Stiles moves to follow through on his threat. “Alright, fine!” he exclaims, snatching the blankets from Stiles’ hand. He grumbles under his breath as he moves across the sofa but nevertheless wraps the blankets snugly around their shoulders and allows Stiles to mould himself to his side. Once they’re settled, he feels Stiles’ eyes on the side of his face and sighs. “Fine, I guess this isn’t _so_ bad.”

“You flatter me.”

“Don’t get used to it. Wouldn’t want your head to get any bigger.”

“Hey!”

* * *

After a couple of hours curled up together on the sofa, Stiles’ phone vibrates on the coffee table and brings him out of his bubble of perfection. Reluctantly he extricates himself just enough to grab it, and then frowns down at the next text message that has just come in.

“What is it?” Derek asks.

“It’s Parrish,” Stiles replies. “He wants me to come over, says it’s important.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea... You’re still recovering.”

“True, but... I still think I should.”

“You sure? Melissa will kill me if you end up exacerbating any of your injuries.”

“Then I won’t.”

A few minutes later, after Stiles has gotten dressed, Derek follows Stiles’ directions and drives them across town to Parrish’s apartment building. He takes one of the empty parking spaces in the lot outside, helps Stiles out and up to the front entrance, and presses the button on the intercom that has _Jordan Parrish_ written across it in a tidy scrawl. Five seconds later, Parrish’s voice comes out of the tinny speaker, and Stiles and Derek are buzzed in. Because of Stiles’ foot, they take the elevator up to the third floor, where Stiles knocks on the plain light-brown door for apartment 3C.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Parrish says when he opens it.

“I had time to kill,” Stiles replies, stepping inside.

Parrish shuts the door again and keeps them standing in the living room. “Derek,” he greets, holding out his hand for the alpha to shake. He grins and laughs when Derek takes it and shakes it once in an awkward, jerky motion. “It’s good to see you, man. I hear from Melissa McCall that you’re keeping our young Stiles here pretty busy these days.”

“As much as I’d love to get into this, why are we here?” Stiles interpolates, saving himself some embarrassment.

“Right, sorry.” Parrish’s demeanour becomes sad. “It’s about Isaac... He’s been doing alright, y’know? Better than anyone could’ve really expected considering what he’s been through. But today he hasn’t come out of his room. I think he had a bad nightmare last night that set him back on his heels, and as much as I already like the kid and want to help him as much as I can, I really think he needs a friend his own age, someone to give him some normalcy. That’s where you come in. I couldn’t think of a better person to fill that role than you.”

Stiles is stunned but rolls with it.

“I’m happy to help. I was gonna try and befriend him anyway.”

“OK, cool. Stay here. I’ll go get him.”

Derek takes a seat on the sofa while he waits, but Stiles is too curious to join him. He observes as Parrish walks down the hall and knocks gently on what must be Isaac’s door. There comes a sort of rustling from the other side and then, a few seconds later, the door opens a few inches and nervous eyes peer through the gap. They widen in alarm when they land on Stiles.

“Hey, is it alright if I come in for a sec’?” Parrish asks, drawing Isaac’s attention to him with an encouraging smile. “Or, if you’d prefer, you can come out? You can say no, but there’s someone I think you should meet.”

Isaac bites his lip, his eyes flicking back to Stiles, and for a moment Stiles thinks the other boy is going to shut the door again. But then Isaac seems to reconsider, throwing it open and stepping out into the hall. He moves cautiously, with his back hunched over as if protecting himself, until he reaches the living room. Stiles waves at him and plasters on his friendliest smile, hoping to allay Isaac’s fears.

“Isaac, this is Stiles,” Parrish introduces.

“Hey,” Stiles says.

The tall teen doesn’t respond verbally but nods in his direction.

“And that’s Derek,” Parrish continues, pointing at the leather-clad man. “How about we all sit down, hmm?”

“I guess...” Isaac croaks.

Parrish sits down next to Derek, in the middle of the sofa, leaving Isaac to take the other end and Stiles to perch on the edge of the coffee table. “Right, so,” Parrish says, rubbing his hands together, “I already told you that Stiles is the reason you’re out of your dad’s house, right? Well, let me tell you a bit more about him. I’ve known him for years, ever since I got my position as a deputy. He’s the sheriff’s kid, which you probably already know, and he’s... Basically he’s like the little brother I never had. He’s good people, and I asked him to come round today so that you two could get to know each other a bit. I think you could be good friends.”

“And him?” Isaac asks, looking warily at Derek, who looks impassively back.

“Well, him I don’t know quite as well. Not at all, really. But I know Stiles trusts him, and I trust Stiles’ judgement so... Good enough.”

“Who is he?”

“Derek’s my, uh...boyfriend?” Stiles supplies, glancing at Derek for confirmation. “Yeah, boyfriend.”

Isaac’s eyes spark with recognition. “Derek...Hale? As in The Hale Fire, Hale?”

“Yes,” Derek responds tersely.

“Oh... Well, as much as I appreciate you coming over here to see me,” Isaac says, turning his eyes to Stiles, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Stiles assures. “It’s empathy. I know you don’t really have a reason to believe me, but I’m here because I genuinely want to be friends. I heard Jackson Whittemore talking about you in school, and I knew I had to do something. I know some of what you’ve gone through and I wanted to help. Still do. My dad, he... While he never laid a hand on me like that, he drank, a lot—still does, I guess—and whenever he was loaded he always did a very good job of putting me down and making me feel like complete shit. Now, I’m not saying that even compares. You had it much, _much_ worse than I did, so bad that I can’t even imagine, but if we’re not in the same boat then we’re at least in the same dock. I think it would be good to have someone around who knows at least a little of what you’ve gone through.”

“I’m not sure...” Isaac says, shifting uncomfortably in place.

“When do you go back to school?”

“Uhh... Next week, I think.”

“How about we do a trial run or something? You meet me outside school before it starts, and I can introduce you to everyone. Erica, Boyd, Lydia... I know they’d all love to meet you and make you feel welcome. And, if you get too overwhelmed at any point, just say the word and we’ll leave you alone again. Deal?”

“I don’t... I’m still not sure.”

“Well, I’ll be waiting outside school on Monday,” Stiles says as he pushes himself to his feet. “If you show up, great, and if not, then...no harm done, and I’ll see you around. Now, I should probably get back home before Melissa finds out I’m not resting up in bed like she told me to and kicks my ass even more than it’s already been kicked.”


	17. Presumptuous is My Middle Name

_\- Thursday, February 24th, 2011 -_

Stiles stands outside of Alisha’s Boutique with butterflies proliferating in his stomach. In five minutes he is supposed to walk inside and meet Erica’s mother for an interview, which will hopefully lead to him finally landing a part-time job. Even though Erica had told him before they parted ways in the school parking lot that she’d been talking him up all week, Stiles can’t help but worry that he’ll find a way to screw up this opportunity and wind up back at square one.

He checks himself over in the reflection of the boutique’s large display window, titivating his unruly hair and adjusting on his slender frame the clothes he’d carefully chosen that morning, with Melissa’s assistance. The collar of his crisp white shirt chafes where it’s buttoned up to his neck, and the shirt itself has some noticeable wrinkles in it—as well as a small red stain near where it’s tucked into his best pair of jeans, from when he’d accidentally spilled some ketchup on himself during lunch—but otherwise he thinks he looks decent. He hopes it will be enough to help him make a good impression.

Preening done, Stiles looks down at his phone and watches as the last few seconds tick by. When it’s time, he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door, drawing the attention of the few patrons that are currently browsing the boutique’s moderate selection of clothing, jewellery and trinkets. Erica’s mother, who stands behind the till on the right side of the room, looks up at the sound of the bell jingling above the door and waves him over.

"Stiles, you’re right on time!" Alisha beams.

"Hi, Mrs. Reyes," Stiles says.

"Oh, come now, none of that! Please, just call me Alisha," the woman requests, stepping out from behind the till and crossing the room to the door. Her long pink skirt flows around her legs as she walks, and the overhead lights catch on the red beads that run in thin swirling lines down the length of it to the hem, where they form flowers. She flips around the sign in the window so that the outside reads _CLOSED_. "I’m sorry to make you wait," she says as she returns to her post, "but if it’s not a problem, I’ll just see to these last few customers and then we’ll begin once we have some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, that’s fine, Mrs. Reyes," Stiles says, nodding amicably.

"Alisha," she reminds him.

"Alisha," Stiles accedes, taking the stool she offers him.

While the last few customers select their purchases and pay, Stiles allows his eyes to wander. Along the walls are different clothing racks, all boasting different items—shirts, skirts, trousers and sweaters, organised by colour with duplicates of each item in different sizes. In the middle of the room are several display tables covered in velvety purple fabric, each of them topped with their own gallimaufry of jewellery and trinkets.

Once the last customer is out the door, Alisha flips the lock and sags with relief. "God, I love doing that," she giggles to herself. "Don’t get me wrong—it’s pretty much always been my dream to own a place just like this and I don’t regret following that dream at all, but _damn_ , I didn't take into account just how tiring and stressful working in retail can be..." Her blue eyes widen when she realises what she’s just said, and to whom, and she looks at Stiles sheepishly. "Not that any of that should stop you from wanting to work here, of course. I’m exaggerating. It won’t be nearly as bad for you."

"Relax," Stiles butts in, smiling, "I still want the job."

"Oh, thank God."

Alisha escorts Stiles into the back room. The space feels much smaller than it really is, due to all the boxes of extra stock piled up around the walls, but there’s enough room for a couple of chairs and a small table, on top of which is an old MacBook Pro and a stack of papers. Alisha tells Stiles to take a seat while she switches on a kettle that, because it’s wedge in between yet more boxes, Stiles hadn’t even noticed.

"Coffee?" she asks over her shoulder. "Or tea? I’ve got plain, Earl Grey or green."

"Coffee is fine, thanks."

A minute later, Alisha hands Stiles a mug of black coffee and sits down at the other side of the table. Her whole demeanour changes then, from the genial, almost earthy woman Stiles had met not even ten minutes ago to a serious businesswoman. "So, Erica’s already told me a bit about you when she was repeatedly asking me to consider you, but I have some questions of my own," she begins, pulling her laptop close and doing something on it that Stiles can’t see. "I trust that’s alright with you?"

"Yeah, sure," he accepts uneasily.

"You’re 16, yes?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any previous experience working in retail?"

Stiles takes a sip of his beverage to bide some time.

"Not really, no. But I’m eager to learn."

"Do you have any experience working at all?"

"I used to help my dad down at the station, with filing and stuff, if that counts."

"It might. What do you consider to be your main strengths?"

"Uhh, let’s see... I’m a hard worker. I have good people skills and can get along with pretty much anyone. I’m diligent. I didn’t really want to spend my afternoons filing for my dad, but I did a hell of a good job anyway, if I do say so myself."

"And your weaknesses?"

Stiles avoids the urge to make a joke. "I have a habit of talking too much, I guess. Give me a topic and I’ll talk your ear off until you tell me to shut up. I’ve been told it can get annoying."

"You said a minute ago that you didn’t want to spend your afternoons working for your dad," Alisha says, typing away on her computer, making notes. Stiles internally cringes and wishes that he’d phrased things differently. "Why do you want to work here now, then? Answer honestly, please."

"I need the money."

"For what?"

"To help out with expenses and stuff? I’m not going to get into it right now, but I’m living with a...a friend, at the moment, and it’s a single-income family. It was their idea and everything, but they can’t really afford to have me there and I feel guilty for putting them out. So yeah, I need the money so they don’t have to sacrifice too much."

Alisha hums quietly. "I see. Well, I think that’s all the information I need right now, thank you," she says, leaving Stiles to sit in anxious silence as she continues to type for a couple of minutes. But then she speaks again, and Stiles feels like he’s getting whiplash from how fast the atmosphere in the room changes. She drops the serious facade again and grins at him. "You can relax now; the hard part’s over. I was probably going to hire you anyway because Erica did a _very_ good job of talking you up, and I liked what I heard just now, so...when can you start? I was thinking maybe this Sunday, if it’s not too much trouble. Ordinarily you’ll only be working after school for a couple of hours, three or four days a week, maybe. But I’d like to use this Sunday to take you over how everything works here and get you better prepared for Monday. 12 p.m. S’that sound doable?"

Flustered, Stiles nevertheless stands and shakes Alisha’s hand when she offers it. "Yeah."

"Excellent!" she claps her hands together excitedly. "I’ll see you then."

* * *

_\- Saturday, February 26th, 2011 -_

A few hours after having dinner together at Melissa’s, Stiles walks with Derek up the Argents’ dark front path, ready to have his next training session with Chris. The cut on his foot has healed to the point where it doesn’t cause him any pain or discomfort, and the bruising on his forehead, while still an eyesore, is no longer tender. Even so, and even after their talk earlier in the week, he can tell that Derek is apprehensive about him doing something so physically demanding so soon. Sure enough, when Stiles raises his fist to knock on the front door, Derek grabs hold of his wrist before his knuckles connect.

"Alright..." Stiles sighs, dropping his arm. "Let’s hear it."

"Are you sure you’re up for this?" Derek asks, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket. "If your foot’s still not feeling that great, I don’t think Chris would mind you taking a rain check until it heals completely."

"Nope," Stiles says, knocking on the door and smirking when Derek huffs.

"I give up."

A minute later the door swings inward and Chris—who is dressed to match Stiles’ sweatpants and plain white T-shirt—invites them inside, just as Victoria walks through from the living room. Stiles, having not seen her since she pointed at gun at him, tenses up, but she doesn’t try anything. She simply glares in his direction on her way upstairs, her nose scrunched up as if she has just smelled something awful. The sound a door slamming echoes down to the foyer and makes Chris shake his head sadly.

"I’m sorry about her," the hunter says. "I talked to her about what she pulled last week and she still hasn’t quite forgiven me for not taking her side... But she did promise not to do it again, so there’s that, I suppose. And I’ll make sure that every time you have a session here, Stiles, or Derek hosts a session in the preserve, she won’t be in attendance. At least until she comes around." He sighs, then switches topics. "Anyway, enough of that. We’re going to be doing things a little differently this evening. For starters—you won’t be training here right away. We’re just waiting on my dad to get some stuff together, and then we’ll be heading somewhere else that’s better equipped for what I have planned."

As if he was waiting for his cue, Gerard appears then, coming up from the basement with a large black duffel bag clutched in his hand. He nods impassively at Derek and Stiles on his way past, and Stiles glimpses what look like the barrels of a shotgun and a hunting rifle sticking out where the bag is partially unzipped at one end.

"Come on," Chris says, traipsing outside after his father.

Everyone piles into Stiles’ Jeep, where Chris gives the boy directions from the back seat. He refuses to spill any more details until they arrive at their mystery destination, but it isn’t hard for Stiles to figure it out, especially when he sees the building outside of which Chris has him park. It’s the same shooting range his dad took him to from time to time, but it’s closed now because of the late hour, no cars apart from his Jeep in the small lot and no lights on within.

Gerard is the first one out of the car, leaving the others to follow as he pulls out a keyring from his jacket pocket and unlocks the front entrance to the range.

"How did you get those?" Stiles asks curiously.

"The Argents are a very prestigious hunting family," Gerard responds gruffly.

"We have connections, is what he means," Chris supplies, after his dad walks inside without another word. "I know the owner of this place, and he was kind enough to let us use it for a couple of hours, free of charge."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Cool."

They find Gerard waiting patiently in the main area, by one of the lanes along the shooting line. Each lane has a weapon laid out ready. Stiles walks the length of the room to take in all the gleaming metal and sees a handgun, a shotgun, the hunting rifle he’d used on Peter, a sniper rifle, a crossbow, and a bow, complete with several sharp and deadly-looking arrows.

"What's all this?" he asks with a frown.

"Your next lesson," Chris replies, joining his father.

"Are we not doing combat today, then?"

The corner of Chris’ mouth twitches. "We will," he says, picking up the handgun and holding it out for Stiles to take. "But first, you’ll be learning a bit about the different weapons you’re likely to use should you encounter anything that threatens you in the future."

"Oh," Stiles says, turning the gun over in his hand.

"Do you have any experience with guns?"

"A little. My dad brought me to this very shooting range a few times and took me over the basics, just in case I ever needed to use the spare gun he keeps locked up in his office at home," Stiles reveals, extracting the clip and humming when he sees that it’s fully loaded. Putting it back, he transfers the gun to his dominant hand and grips it the way his dad had taught him. "But that’s about it. The only other times I’ve actually held a gun outside of a shooting range were during that night in the preserve, when we took down Peter."

"Really?" Derek enquires, stepping closer.

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s just surprising, especially after that shot you managed to land on Peter with Chris’ rifle," Derek explains, running his index finger lightly over the sharp edge of a broadhead arrow. "I was holding my own, but I don’t think I would’ve been able to carry on for much longer, and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to beat him without you shooting him through the neck. That’s why."

"Well...thanks, I guess," Stiles says with a smile.

Derek smiles back.

Eventually Chris coughs pointedly and brings them out of their staring contest. "As sweet as this is, you’re here for something important, yes?" he asks rhetorically, though not unkindly. There’s a small hint of amusement beneath his stern expression, but Stiles feels the chastisement anyway and looks away from Derek, refocusing on the task at hand.

"Yeah, sorry. Carry on. I’m listening."

"Alright, then..." Chris says, taking back the gun and setting it down in its place. "Let’s start by familiarising you with all of these. My dad and I chose several weapons that we thought had potential for you. Every hunter develops a preference over time and experience, a type of weapon, a make or even a specific model, that becomes like an extension of them, their go-to. That’s the purpose of us being down here this evening, to find out which of these calls to you. You’re likely to use all of them at some point or another, depending on what the situation calls for, but if all goes well, this evening will give us a starting point."

Chris walks down the shooting line and taps his finger once to each weapon as he names them. "Here we have a Beretta M9 pistol; a Barrett M107A1 sniper rifle; a Sako Finnlight hunting rifle; a Benelli M2 shotgun; an SAS Crusher crossbow; and, finally, a Hoyt Gamemaster II recurve bow, complete with custom-made broadhead arrows bearing our family’s crest." He picks up one of these arrows and points to the small elegant A that is debossed into the metal, near the tip. "All of our wolfsbane bullets bear this crest, too, on the base. Now, I’m going to have you carefully test out each weapon, see how it feels in your hands and how it handles when you fire, using the targets set up along the wall over there."

Stiles follows Chris’ finger and looks down the closest lane to see a paper target hung up on the other side, the typical black silhouette of a person.

"Let's start simple."

Chris picks up the pistol and—once everyone is wearing protective earmuffs, provided by Gerard—fires in two quick bursts, one cluster aimed at the target’s head and the second at its chest. Even standing as far away as he is, Stiles can tell that the grouping is impossibly tight, an intimidating display of skill that he has no hope of measuring up to yet. Still, when the bullet-riddled target is replaced with a fresh one and Chris hands him the gun, Stiles tries his best, paying close attention as the hunter repositions his hands and adjusts his stance.

The first couple of bullets miss the target entirely, until Chris reminds him to breathe and his accuracy improves. He doesn’t match Chris’ demonstration, not by a long shot, but by the time the clip is empty he has managed to land a couple of head shots and one right through where the heart would be.

"Not bad, Stiles," Chris compliments, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Thanks."

"Let’s move on to the next one."

One by one Stiles tries out the weapons. He finds the shotgun and crossbow particularly troublesome, but the hunting rifle is surprisingly easy to use. The sniper rifle is also alright, but it’s with the recurve bow that Stiles excels after a couple of fumbled shots, one of which ends with his fingers slipping as he tries to draw the string taut. The arrow lands with a clatter on the floor a couple of feet away. After a few more attempts, though, he hits his stride and feels disappointed when his arms become too tired to fire another arrow.

"Do we have a winner?" Chris enquires, with a knowing glint in his icy eyes.

"I think we do," Stiles says, looking down at the bow.

"Excellent. The next time we do weapons training, we’ll focus on the recurve bow more than the others, get you even more comfortable with it. Maybe in the preserve somewhere, where you can practise shooting at longer distances."

Stiles grins. "I’ll be shooting an apple off your head from a hundred feet away in no time."

The hunter shakes his head. "I think not."

* * *

Back at the Argents’, Stiles descends into the basement with Derek and Chris to find that a space has been cleared in the middle of the room and a couple of large navy-blue gym mats lain down side by side. Chris and Stiles take their places on these mats, Stiles with the pistol he’d used back at the shooting range and Chris completely unarmed.

"Try to shoot me," the hunter says, getting right to it.

"Excuse me?" Stiles gapes.

"Don’t worry; it’s no longer loaded. Now try to shoot me."

"Why?"

"I’m going to show you what happens when you fight against someone with a great deal more physical strength than you, like a werewolf. So come on. Try."

"Uhh... Alright."

After double-checking that the clip really _is_ empty, Stiles swallows his nerves and raises the gun, only to immediately find it knocked out of his hand and his vision blurring. When it clears, he finds that he’s now lying on his front, with his arm twisted behind his back. "Hey! That wasn’t fair!" he protests, struggling against Chris’ hold. When he is let go, Stiles gets up and rubs at his shoulder with a pout. "You didn’t give me any warning."

"Do you think someone who wants to kill you will play fair?" Chris asks. "Did Peter play fair?"

"No..."

"Exactly," Chris says, crossing his arms over his chest. "You’re at a disadvantage right from the get-go. They’re stronger and faster than you, have far better senses than you do. They don’t need to hold a weapon to fight—they already have theirs, claws and fangs that will tear you apart in the blink of an eye if you slip up and let them get close enough to you. So, to have a chance at survival you need to be able to stand up to any trick they can pull. Like anyone, werewolves will do whatever they have to in order to survive. You can’t count on them having any morals or sense of decency or even mercy should they find themselves in a position where their life is in danger, so you have to fight just as dirty as they do. Now, try again. We’ll keep doing this until you learn from your mistakes."

Several more times Stiles ends up pinned to the gym mat, his frustration growing each time because, no matter what he does, he can’t seem to last more than a few seconds. He tries everything he can think of—he feints left and then quickly changes course, but Chris is faster; he keeps the gun close to his side and waits to use it until Chris has made the first move, but that first move is to again knock the gun from his tight grip; he ducks low and attempts to sweep Chris’ legs out, but the hunter jumps nimbly and takes advantage of his position low to the mat and pins him again. Nothing seems to work, and by the end of the eighth attempt he’s close to calling it quits until another day. Close, but not there yet.

On his ninth attempt, some new inspiration comes to him.

Before Chris can disarm him, Stiles throws the gun between the hunter’s legs and uses the distraction to dart toward him. Chris catches up at the last second and sidesteps the attack, but it doesn’t matter. With Chris out of the way, Stiles is able to reach the gun again. Twisting just before he hits the mat, he lands on his back and points the gun right at the centre of Chris’ chest.

Chris seems stunned, but then a pleased grin forms on his face.

"That was some good thinking," he says.

"Thanks."

Stiles takes the hand the hunter offers him and, back on his feet, tries to catch his breath. He glances at the clock on the wall and gapes stupidly when he sees that they’ve been at it for an hour already. But, when he takes into account how sweaty he is and how tired he feels, he supposes it makes sense. Chris has a similar reaction to the time.

"I think that’ll do for now, don’t you?" the hunter says, laughing breathlessly.

Gerard steps forward then, surprising Stiles, who hadn’t noticed him come down to join them. The oldest Argent carries with him two bottles of chilled water, one of which Stiles takes gratefully and chugs until Derek tells him to slow down, lest he choke. After helping the two hunters get everything packed away, he walks with Derek and Chris up the stairs to the ground floor and prepares to leave, anticipation building in his gut because he knows what’s coming once he and Derek are out of the house.

"Well, it’s been a blast," Stiles says to Chris. "When’s our next session?"

"Next Saturday. Same time," the blond man responds.

"Got it."

Once goodbyes have been exchanged, Stiles walks outside and basks in the cool breeze that immediately hits the hot skin of his face.

"Can you drop me off at the loft before you head home?" Derek asks.

"Well, actually..." Stiles mumbles, looking bashfully down at the ground. "I probably should’ve run it past you first, but if you don’t have a problem with it, I wasn’t planning on going home tonight." He reaches inside the back seat of his Jeep and extracts a backpack, which he unzips to show Derek the bundle of clean clothes and the ziplock bag of toiletries he’d packed that morning. "I though that, uh, maybe I could sleep round yours. I talked to Melissa last night and she said she was OK with it."

"That’s pretty presumptuous of you," Derek comments, his eyebrows high up on his forehead. When Stiles deflates and zips his backpack back up, taking it as a no, Derek’s eyebrows return to their usual place and the left side of his mouth twitches, his eyes shining playfully. "But since you already went to the trouble of setting this up..."

Stiles looks at him hopefully. "Is that a yes?"

"I suppose."

"Wow, so enthusiastic."

"Just get in, idiot, before I change my mind."


	18. The Feel of Your Skin on Mine

"Wow, you've been busy!" Stiles exclaims as he steps inside Derek's loft. He drifts over to the middle of the room, where he drops his backpack to the floor and spins slowly in place, taking in everything that has changed since his last visit a couple of weeks ago.

Where once there was only a single burgundy sofa, there are now three, mismatched in a way that's still aesthetically pleasing. Coloured sapphire-blue and forest-green, the two new additions are positioned on opposite sides of the onyx coffee table, forming a U shape with the burgundy sofa that points in the direction of the left wall. Mounted onto the red bricks is a pricey-looking TV, with a small wooden cupboard standing right below it, containing a blu-ray player and a small pile of old DVDs.

His curiosity growing, Stiles walks through the open doorway to his right, only vaguely aware of Derek shadowing him, and gawks at the spruced-up kitchen. It's still relatively bare, but now it looks intentional rather than because it was gutted years before. Running along the left wall is a white countertop, with a plain metal sink set into it halfway down. Next to the sink sits a microwave and half a loaf of bread, and underneath all of this are drawers and cupboards sparsely filled with cutlery, some pots and pans, various cleaning products, and some rags. On the right side of the room is a large silver fridge-freezer combo, a commercial model one might expect to see in a restaurant. There's a sizeable dent in one of the doors, so Stiles assumes that, rather than forking out the full retail price, Derek saved a few bucks and bought it secondhand. A smart move, he muses as he opens the fridge and looks at what's inside. He finds a lot of meat, a few condiments, a half-drunk container of milk, and nothing else.

He shakes his head. "Werewolves..."

After closing the fridge, Stiles reenters the loft's main space and strides across it to the bathroom. The floor is the most noticeable change. Gone is the bare concrete, replaced with large off-white tiles that look professionally done. It's only when Stiles crouches down to get a better look that he sees the odd imperfection that speaks of a layman's handiwork.

"Dude, this place looks awesome!" Stiles asseverates as he stands up again.

"I'm glad you think so," Derek responds from his position leaning against the door frame.

"How long did this take?"

"A few days."

"Well, it's seriously impressive."

"Thanks," Derek smiles, pushing away from the door frame and leading the way back out into the living room. He takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the burgundy sofa, before taking a seat with his feet kicked up on the coffee table and his hands clasped behind his head. "So, what do you feel like doing?" he asks when Stiles stays standing. "I've got the TV and stuff, but I'm afraid I don't have much to actually use it with yet."

"That's alright," Stiles says, biting his bottom lip. "It's pretty late anyway."

"You tired? Chris did put you through a lot today."

"A bit," Stiles lies, hoping that the alpha won't notice the blip in his heartbeat. Despite the truth of Derek's words, he isn't tired at all, is too keyed up. "D'you mind if I use your shower? I'm still all sweaty from earlier and it's kinda gross."

"Help yourself."

* * *

Sooner than Stiles had expected, he finds himself lying beneath the sheets in Derek's bed, feeling childish in his Spiderman pyjamas. Derek is sat beside him with a book open in his lap, still dressed in his day clothes but with bare feet now, while Stiles picks at his cuticles and tries to gather the courage to open his mouth.

"I can hear you thinking," Derek says suddenly, putting his book aside.

"Sorry," Stiles mutters.

"Don't apologise. I can tell you want to say something, so just say it. I'm listening."

Stiles' heart beats fast as he pushes himself up so that he's sitting, too. He moves closer, until they're pressed together from thigh to shoulder and his head is tucked against the right side of Derek's broad chest. He sighs happily when the alpha moves his arm to make room and wraps it around him instead, thick fingers tracing lazy patterns over his hip. This close, all Stiles can smell is the deodorant Derek uses and his natural underlying musk, comprised of leather, clean sweat and something unidentifiable that belongs purely to Derek. It's a heady mixture that has Stiles feeling dizzy and his stomach churning as he readies himself to spill the true reason for his staying over.

"I didn't really ask to sleep here tonight just to, y'know, sleep," Stiles explains quietly, looking up at Derek from under his eyelashes. Derek's eyes meet his and widen a fraction, the meaning of his words obviously not lost on him. "I mean, if you're OK with it, I thought that maybe we'd take this thing a bit further. And before you ask—yes, I'm sure."

"You don't sound it," Derek frowns.

"Well, I'm still incredibly nervous," Stiles grins shakily, an almost hysterical laugh slipping out. "But I want this. I really, _really_ want this." He reaches up and smooths his thumb over the deep crease between Derek's eyebrows, disappearing his frown and causing Derek's eyes to soften. "Maybe not all the way, not quite yet—we'll have to see how it goes—but I want you. You have no idea how much."

"I think I do..." Derek murmurs, leaning down and kissing Stiles sweetly.

Derek cradles the back of Stiles' head and, keeping their lips connected, raises them both up to their knees. Stiles moans into the kiss, tangling the fingers of one hand in the short hairs at the base of Derek's skull and clutching at Derek's shoulder with the other. His dick begins to swell in his pyjama bottoms, and he can tell that Derek isn't faring any better by the hardness that pokes him in the leg. With the tiny part of his brain not currently focused on their lips sliding together and the slick tongue invading his mouth, he registers a sense of astonishment. He has felt Derek's arousal against him before, of course, but he's still amazed that he has the power to elicit such a reaction. He trusts that Derek is attracted to him, but after years of being made to feel less than by his peers at school, it's a lot for him to wrap his head around. Especially because it's _Derek_ —a.k.a. The Hottest Man Alive.

After a few minutes of simply making out, Stiles tears his mouth away from his wolf's and stares at his flushed face. He shudders at the intensity in Derek's eyes. "How're we gonna do this?" he asks. "This is all new to me, remember."

Derek rests his hand on Stiles' knee. "Want me to take the lead?"

"That'd be great, yeah."

Stiles' eyes slip closed when Derek kisses him again, his body losing all tension. Until he feels Derek's hands moving to the hem of his shirt, that is. He jumps in surprise when one adventurous finger slips beneath the fabric and brushes across his stomach, making his abdominal muscles twitch and contract.

"Is this OK?" Derek asks against Stiles' lips.

Nodding, Stiles breathes Derek in as his touches become more confident. The wolf rucks his shirt up and, after again seeking Stiles' blessing, pulls it off entirely, baring him to the cool air inside the loft. With a soft sound he hears his shirt hit concrete a few feet away and then Derek leans back, but Stiles keeps his eyes closed. There's a long stretch of silence, in which he feels more and more exposed. This is the first time Derek has seen him like this, and he can't help it when old insecurities surge forth from the box in which he'd shoved them in the back of his mind. He's a scrawny thing, he knows, especially when compared to the mass of pure muscle in front of him, and he's sure that, should he open his eyes, he'll see disappointment on Derek's face. He wishes he had his shirt back, and eventually it becomes too much and he gives into the urge to cover himself again, tilting his head down as he tries to wrap his arms around his insubstantial chest and ab-less stomach.

Before he manages it, though, Derek grabs his wrists.

"Stiles...look at me," the man implores quietly.

Something in Derek's voice has Stiles complying, something akin to awe that he must be imagining. Maybe, as a way of protecting him, his subconscious is making him hear what he wants to hear. Yeah, that sounds about right. He cracks open his eyes trepidatiously and glances at Derek, but he is prevented from looking away again when the alpha transfers both wrists to his left hand and takes hold of his chin with the right.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks.

"Nothing..." Stiles denies, trying once more to cover himself.

Derek still doesn't let him, keeping Stiles' wrists in a firm yet gentle grip. He looks over every inch of the pale, mole-dotted skin that makes up Stiles' naked torso, from his broad shoulders, pronounced collarbones and pebbled nipples, to his barely developed abdominal muscles, just visible beneath a thin layer of baby fat that will fast be burned away with Chris' training. After looking his fill, he returns his eyes to Stiles', a reassuring smile on his lips. "I think I know, but you're mistaken. Trust me—you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of," Derek promises, with a devastating amount of open honesty and affection on his face. "You're beautiful."

Stiles blushes a deep scarlet. "Am not."

"Are, too," Derek reiterates. He lets go of Stiles' wrists in favour of cupping his face with both hands and strokes his thumbs across the elegant slope of Stiles' cheekbones. "We don't have to go any further tonight if you want to stop now. I won't be mad or disappointed or anything. But believe me when I say that I want you, too, in any way I can get you."

To emphasise his point, Derek looks down at his lap.

Following his gaze, Stiles just about starts to believe Derek's words when he sees the bulge that is still obvious beneath the dark-blue denim of his jeans. It seems to get impossibly bigger as he gawks, forming a long, thick line the runs down the inside of Derek's left thigh and pulls his jeans taut. His wolf is rather well-endowed, it seems, and Stiles can't help but wonder what it would feel like in his hand, in his mouth, in...other places. It's only when he hears Derek suggest that they level the playing field a bit that he manages—with monumental effort—to tear his eyes away from the hard length, only to find himself wonderstruck.

Derek cross his arms in front of his waist and peels off his chocolate-coloured Henley with unbearable slowness, likely because he knows just what he's doing to Stiles and wants to tease him. Once it's all the way off and tossed to the floor to join Stiles' T-shirt, Derek sits still on his heels and lets Stiles stare, with an amused glint in his hazel eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up. And stare Stiles does. The sight of a shirtless Derek isn't really anything new, but whenever the wolf has been bare like this in the past there were always more urgent things going on, lives that were in danger. Now that he has the time, Stiles takes full advantage of the opportunity Derek is giving him.

He feels like one of the characters in the old cartoons he used to watch as a child, whose hearts would visibly try to burst from their chests with every beat whenever the objects of their affections were around. Stiles longs to reach out and touch, but he keeps his hands to himself for now, his nails digging painfully into his knees.

The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table casts every dip and plane of Derek's torso into sharp relief, but his chest is what arrests Stiles' attention first. His large pectoral muscles are covered in a field of hair that Stiles wants to run his fingers through, spanning from just below his neck to surround dusky nipples that Stiles wants to lick and _bite_. The dark hairs taper off into a thin happy trail, which runs down the centre of Derek's abs and disappears below the waistband of his jeans.

"You're drooling," Derek says, snapping him out of his staring.

Stiles wipes at the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Just shut up and get over here already," he commands, making grabby hands.

Derek does just that.

"Like this?" he asks, stopping when their chests are just an inch apart.

"It'll do."

Feeling more confident now, Stiles reaches for the button of Derek's jeans and blindly slips it through the placket, his eyes locked to Derek's. Next comes the zipper, which he pulls down just as slowly as Derek had removed his Henley. When it's completely undone, he whispers against Derek's parted lips: "Take them off."

Derek obeys eagerly, and a few seconds later he kneels before Stiles in just his underwear, a pair of tight black boxer-briefs that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Stiles very much appreciates the visual of Derek's erection straining to get free, especially the small patch of fabric at the head that's wet and stained dark with pre-come. But he still wants more. He pushes at Derek's shoulders until he gets the message and lies down on his back, propped up on his elbows. Then, with shaking hands, Stiles grabs the waistband of Derek's boxers and pulls them off in one smooth motion.

Derek's cock smacks against his stomach as it's uncovered, leaving a glob of tacky pre-come in his treasure trail. Stiles has never been this close to someone else's junk before. The only times he's ever really seen another guy's hard dick were when he used to watch porn, but back then he'd never paid attention to the guy. That's definitely not the case now. Just like Stiles had thought, Derek's dick is huge, thicker than his own and longer, too, maybe totalling eight or nine inches, by Stiles' estimation. It's surrounded by a thick nest of dark curls, and it's uncut. God _damn_ , Derek is uncut. Of course he is, Stiles thinks, more saliva building in his mouth as Derek's cock twitches and another glob of pre-come burbles out of the slit. It cascades down the folds of foreskin still covering the head.

It's glorious.

"You OK up there?" Derek asks, when Stiles has been motionless for going on five minutes.

"Yeah..." Stiles replies huskily. "Yeah, it's just...you're packin', dude."

"S'that a problem?"

Glancing up at Derek's face, Stiles laughs breathlessly when he sees that his wolf looks genuinely concerned. "Hell no, dude!" he refutes, resting his hand on Derek's left shin. "I mean, how I'm gonna fit that monster inside my ass is a bit alarming, honestly, but I'm definitely looking forward to trying."

Stiles doesn't give Derek a chance to say anything else. He runs his hands up Derek's legs, from his calves to his muscular thighs, and finds that there's something strangely erotic about how the coarse hairs feel under his palms. His eyes darken with lust when he finally reaches his goal, slender fingers wrapping around Derek's throbbing length and giving it a curious stroke that has Derek groaning and falling off of his elbows. The man bucks his hips up into Stiles' grip, and Stiles is fascinated by this response and repeats the action, the pre-come that Derek seems to produce in bucketfuls easing the way.

"That feel good?" he asks, just to be sure.

"Ngh, yes," comes Derek's garbled response.

Shuffling forward, Stiles pushes Derek's legs further apart to make room for himself. He continues pumping his hand up and down Derek's length and rolls his heavy balls in the palm of his other hand. He's never seen a more arousing sight. Derek's hirsute chest heaves as Stiles strokes him, clawed hands tearing into the navy-blue sheets, and he whines softly in pleasure when, on one of his upstrokes, Stiles rubs his thumb deliberately over the bundle of nerves just beneath the velvety head. Stiles uses the many hours he's spent jacking off over the past few years to guide his movements, pulling out all the tricks he found he liked and using them on Derek, to fantastic results. Sweat forms on the alpha's brow and slicks his chest, and Stiles just has to lean down and swipe his tongue across the shining muscles to taste the salt of it. He trails his mouth over the expanse of furred skin until he reaches a nipple, where he gives into his earlier desire and bites down on it.

"Stiles!" Derek gasps, his head tipping back.

Stiles smirks against Derek's nipple before sealing his mouth around it. He alternates between sucking on the small nub and laving it with his tongue, soothing the ache left behind by his teeth, until he gets frustrated with the position. The lack of space between their bodies hinders the movement of his hand on Derek's cock, so he tries something different.

Releasing his wolf's abused nipple with a wet pop, he slithers backward until Derek's rigid shaft stands right in front of his face, the tang of pre-come filling his nose. He wraps his hand around the base to steady it, his fingers tangling in dark curls, and licks his lips in anticipation. Then, unable to resist any longer, he dives right in. He takes the leaking tip in his mouth, wringing a surprised shout from Derek that dwindles into a strangled moan.

Stiles would laugh giddily if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied.

He flicks his tongue over the slit and frowns at the bitterness that bursts across his taste buds. He's unable to decide whether or not he likes it but keeps going anyway, bobbing his head experimentally. Stiles takes Derek's cock in deeper, managing a couple more inches before it hits the back of his throat and his gag reflex is triggered. He pulls off spluttering, his eyes watering, but as soon as he has his breath back he tries again, going slower. Fingers tangle in his hair and pull ever so slightly, and all of a sudden Stiles is _very_ glad that he let it grow out.

He wiggles his tongue beneath Derek's foreskin and runs it in circles around the head, using his hand to work the inches he can't take in his mouth as Derek's thighs quiver and the fingers in his hair pull hard. The bright sparks of pain go right to Stiles' own neglected cock.

A couple more minutes pass, and then...

"Stiles, I'm gonna—" the alpha chokes out, eyes clenched shut.

Grateful for the warning, Stiles pulls off again and brings Derek to completion with just his hand. He watches, enraptured, as Derek's entire body goes taut, his muscles bulging obscenely as his hips leave the bed and the sheets are torn to pieces. Arcs of viscous come shoot forth from Derek's cock, splattering across his chest and abs and even his chin, painting him in white. To Stiles, it seems to go on for an impossibly long time, until the last couple of pulses dribble out and run down over his hand.

When Derek begins to soften, Stiles releases him and brings his fingers up to his lips to lap up some of his wolf's come. As he swirls the creamy fluid around his mouth, he concludes finally that he likes the bitter taste and greedily sucks all of it off of his hand. When there's nothing left but the taste of his own skin, he realises that he has an audience.

Derek is staring up at him lustfully, like Stiles is the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Stiles blushes and lowers his hand. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Wordlessly, Derek sits up and swipes his fingers through some of the come slathered across his chest. He holds them out to Stiles, who stares for a second before getting the memo and cleaning them off, too. It goes on for a while, until Stiles decides to cut out the middle man and just lick it right off of Derek's body, chest hair tickling his tongue. When he's done, he looks down and sees to his astonishment that Derek is getting hard again, his cock going from half-mast to iron faster than Stiles would've thought possible.

"How...?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"Werewolves have short refractory periods," Derek rumbles.

"Oh. Good to know."

Derek smirks at him and then reverses their positions. "Your turn."

"Wait!" Stiles gasps, just before Derek strips him completely. "Get my backpack."

Looking confused, Derek grabs it from where it sits on the floor next to the bed and observes silently as Stiles unzips it and pulls out the ziplock bag of toiletries he'd packed that morning. From this he extracts a small half-empty tube of lubricant, which he gives to Derek. "I want you to use this," Stiles says, dropping his backpack to the floor again. He rests his head against the pillows and cants his hips up, allowing Derek to pull off his pyjama bottoms.

"Stiles... Are you sure?" Derek asks, popping the cap.

"I'm gonna make a poster or something that I can hold up whenever you ask me that. Maybe with big, glittery letters to really drive home the message," Stiles says with an impatient huff. "Yes, Sourwolf, I'm sure. I've been...practising, y'know? Testing the waters or whatever."

Derek's eyes flash red. "You'll have to show me sometime."

"Maybe. But not if you don't get something in me right the fuck now."

"Hmm, can't have that now, can we?"

With lube on his fingers, Derek brings his hand between Stiles' legs and rubs over the furled muscle of his hole. Stiles rocks his ass back and sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes closing of their own volition when Derek pushes forward, a thick finger slipping inside to the first knuckle. Behind his eyelids Stiles sees a flash of Peter, so he forces his eyes open again and looks up at Derek's face to remind himself of who's finger it is inside him. He urges Derek to continue, to go deeper, and sighs as all discomfort fades and the glide becomes smoother. He feels Derek curl his finger and wonders why for a second, before intense pleasure rips through his body and he can't think of anything anymore, can only stare up at Derek in shock.

"D-do that again," he pants.

Derek obliges, using the overwhelming pleasure to work a second finger inside without Stiles noticing. As his prostate is stimulated again and again by those dexterous digits, Stiles feels himself getting dangerously close to coming much quicker than he'd like. He guesses that Derek must be able to sense it, too, because, just before he's tipped over the edge, the wolf finally takes him in his mouth. Stiles' vision whites out as he rides the waves of his orgasm, his ears filled with a roaring sound akin to the ocean as he shoots down Derek's throat.

When it's over, Stiles is distantly aware of Derek's fingers leaving his body, and then he is wrapped up in strong arms and covered with what's left of the sheets. He blinks blearily up at Derek, a goofy grin forming on his lips. "That was awesome," he slurs, exhaustion taking over. "You're awesome."

"Sleep, Stiles," Derek responds fondly.

"Mmm, 'K..." the boy mumbles, nuzzling into the hair of Derek's chest.

And then, just before he succumbs completely, three more words slip out:

"Love you, Sourwolf."


	19. Life is Full of Little Misunderstandings

_\- Sunday, February 27th, 2011 -_

Stiles wakes up suddenly, with his heart beating a mile a minute. He bolts upright in Derek's bed and looks around the loft, trying to find a reason for the deep sense of unease that has his chest tightening and his breaths coming in short and fast. Light is just beginning to spill in through the large windows as the sun rises, casting a warm glow over everything, and Derek slumbers on next to him, oblivious to his panic, but that's it. Stiles can't see anything out of the ordinary, so he expels a shaky breath to calm himself and lies back down, guessing that he must have simply had a nightmare that he just doesn't remember now. For this he's glad because, to make him feel so disquieted, whatever he'd dreamed must have been terrible.

Needing a distraction, Stiles turns to his left and focuses on Derek.

The alpha sleeps on his front, with his head angled away and one arm thrust beneath his pillow. With a frown Stiles leans up on his elbow and looks at Derek's back, at the large black tattoo that spans across his shoulder blades. Stiles has never noticed it before, and he reaches out now and traces the thick swirling lines with fascination.

Before last night, Stiles had only seen Derek shirtless on two occasions—once at the veterinary clinic, when Derek was shot with a wolfsbane bullet; and again down in the catacombs beneath the Hale house, when Kate was holding him captive. For both of those occurrences Derek had stayed facing Stiles the entire time, so Stiles never got a glimpse of his naked back. The tattoo is made up of three spirals that connect in the centre, a symmetrical design that's both simple and elegant. Stiles ponders its meaning, the reason for Derek getting it, which only leads to more questions, like when and how.

Luckily, he doesn't have to wait long.

The touch of Stiles' finger is enough to finally rouse Derek, one of his quiet snores cutting off. There's a second of silence before he groans tiredly and turns over onto his back, throwing an arm above his head and blinking several times as his eyes adjust fully to the morning light. "Ugh, what time is it?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

Stiles retrieves his phone from his backpack. "6:43 a.m."

"Way too early," Derek whines.

With a grin Stiles deposits his phone on the nightstand, next to the tube of lubricant they'd used last night, and rests his hand on Derek's toned stomach, his eyes alight with mischief. "Yup. I guess that just means we'll have to stay in bed for a bit longer, huh? It's a real travesty, I'm telling you." Still leaning on his elbow, his grin relaxes into something more fond as he runs his fingers through the fine hairs below Derek's belly button. "So...last night was fun."

The alpha doesn't respond, just looks up at Stiles blankly and then suddenly goes tense all over. His expression becomes wary, confusing Stiles greatly, before he schools his face into an inscrutable mask, flings back the sheets, and scoots away to the other side of the mattress. Stiles gapes after the half-naked man—when the hell did Derek put on underwear anyway?—and only thinks to say something when Derek reaches the bathroom and goes to close the door.

"What're you doing?" Stiles asks.

"What's it look like?" Derek shoots back.

"But...you just said it yourself that it's way too early!"

"Doesn't matter. I've got a lot of stuff to do today. Might as well start now."

Stiles pouts. "So no cuddles?"

"I'm sorry."

Without another word, Derek shuts the bathroom door, leaving a disappointed and worried Stiles to question what could've possibly happened to derail their conversation so quickly. The last thing he said was about enjoying last night, and his eyes widen when he reaches the inevitable conclusion that maybe Derek didn't agree with him. Maybe Derek didn't enjoy last night as much as it had seemed at the time, and he didn't want to stick around to hurt Stiles' feelings directly. The thought leaves him cold, despite the fact that he still has the clawed-up sheets pulled up to his chest. He sits there and agonises until he hears the shower turn off, at which point he springs out of bed and throws on the change of clothes he'd brought with him yesterday, seeking to feel a little less vulnerable by covering his body.

Fear has him contemplating just leaving before Derek emerges from the bathroom, but he knows what that will lead to—he'll spend the rest of the day fretting. So no, the right thing to do is to confront this thing head-on, to not give the issue a chance to fester and get unnecessarily worse. When the bathroom door opens and Derek steps out with a towel around his waist, done with his matutinal ablutions, Stiles sends up a prayer that the conclusion he drew was wrong and steps in Derek's path as Derek tries to reach his dresser. He puts his hands on his hips in a no-nonsense stance.

"Stiles, please get out of my way so I can get dressed," Derek requests.

"Not until you tell me why you're acting so weird."

"I'm not—"

"Don't even try it, Derek," Stiles interrupts. He keeps his eyes on Derek's face, not wanting to look down and get sidetracked by all the muscle, tanned skin and dark fur on display. "Why did you freak out a few minutes ago? Was it because of something I did last night?" Stiles asks, cursing himself when a thread of anxiety appears in his voice and makes it shake, destroying the air of strength he'd so desperately wanted to maintain. "Was it... Was I not good?"

The mild irritation on Derek's face transforms into abject horror. "Oh, God no!" he rebuts ardently. "Why on Earth would you think that?"

"What am I _supposed_ to think?" Stiles responds, his nerves subsiding slightly because of Derek's reaction. He relaxes his stance, his arms falling by his sides. "Everything was fine until I mentioned last night, and then it was like you couldn't leave the room fast enough! Way to make a guy feel shitty, by the way. So, tell me what I did wrong so that I can fix it."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Stiles..." Derek sighs. "The problem is with me."

"How?"

"How much do you remember of last night? The end, specifically?"

"What, the fingering and the blowjobs? ‘Cause if you didn't like it you could've just said."

"Later than that, just before you went to sleep."

Stiles groans. "Did I do something embarrassing? I did, didn't I?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Would you just tell me already? All this back-and-forth is killing me!"

Derek looks down at his bare feet. "Right before you went to sleep, you said..."

"I said what? Out with it, Sourwolf!"

It's the term of endearment that does it. It takes him back to his last few moments of consciousness the night before, when he was held in the arms of his wolf, sated and safe and warm in the afterglow of a fantastic orgasm. When three little words had slipped out of his mouth without him intending for them to. "Oh!" he bursts out before Derek can speak again. He stares up at the alpha, wide-eyed and unable to believe his foolishness. They've only known each other for two months, and have only been in a romantic relationship for half that time. That's _way_ too soon to use the L word. No wonder Derek was acting so strangely, Stiles thinks, cringing at his past self. "Yeah, that...that's a doozy, alright. Can we just pretend that it never happened and go back to how things were?" he begs. "I didn't mean it. I take it back!"

"I don't want you to take it back," Derek says, offering his young companion a wan smile and turning away from him. He moves to stand in front of his dresser with his back to Stiles, unable to face him any longer. "It was unexpected, but it was still kind of nice to hear. I just— I didn't want you to be disappointed when..."

"When you couldn't say it back," Stiles finishes, after a pause.

Another sigh. "Yeah."

"It's fine, Sourwolf. I get it."

Derek looks back over his shoulder, his expression half hopeful, half afraid. "You do?"

"I think so. It has something to do with Kate, doesn't it?"

Derek lets out a humourless laugh. "Am I really that obvious?"

"No, I just knew going into this that she'd be an issue for you, like Peter is an issue for me," Stiles says, following in the alpha's footsteps and hugging him tightly from behind. His hands come to rest over Derek's stomach and chest, right over his heart, and he leans his forehead against the back of Derek's neck and smiles sadly when he feels strong hands move to cover his. "I've always been good at reading people, I guess because I've been on the outside for most of my life. I ended up watching everybody else and learned a lot about what makes people tick. I still don't know everything that went down between you and Kate—maybe you'll tell me one day, maybe not—but, if I had to guess, I'd say that she was the last person you told you loved like that, and she threw it back in your face and ended up killing most of your family. That's why you can't say it now—you're protecting yourself. Am I close?"

Derek lets out a shuddering breath and nods.

"Like I said, don't worry about it," Stiles reassures, pressing his lips to the damp back of Derek's neck. "It's still early days yet, and I know you care about me. That's more than enough for now, so no feeling awkward, OK? We're good, I promise."

"Thank you," Derek whispers.

"No problem," Stiles says, pulling away. "Now, get dressed before I jump you."

* * *

Stiles leaves the loft a few hours later with a distinct spring in his step. With their issues cleared up, Derek had relented and allowed Stiles to cling to him like a limpet while they watched a couple of the old DVDs Derek had got secondhand from a charity shop in town—fulfilling his ‘daily quota of cuddles', as Stiles called it. All in all it was an excellent way to the spend a Sunday morning, and Stiles knows he would have stayed even longer had it not been for the fact that noon was fast approaching, bringing with it his first day working for Erica's mother.

He makes the drive to her boutique in good time and, because it's Sunday and most of the businesses in Beacon Hills are closed, he actually manages to find a parking space within walking distance. As he proceeds down the street to the boutique, an uncomfortable tingling sensation suddenly spreads from the base of his skull to all of his extremities, bringing him to a halt.

It feels like he's being watched.

Stiles looks up and down the street and at first sees nothing untoward. There are only a few other people around, a young father clutching the hand of a toddler and a pair of boys about his age, and none of them are paying him any mind. But then, just as he's about to shake off the feeling and keep walking, something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye—a flash of dirty-blonde hair and white leather. Whipping his head around, Stiles stands stock-still and stares in shock at the back of a woman as she retreats down an alleyway on the opposite side of the road. There's something disturbingly familiar about her silhouette.

If he didn't know better, he'd think it was Kate.

"It can't be..." he breathes.

His suspicions are confirmed when she turns around and winks at him.

Stiles gasps and takes an instinctive step backward, racking his brain for an explanation. She's dead. He stabbed her through the eye himself, so he _knows_ she's dead. So how is she standing there, grinning at him as if she's a cat and he's a delicious-looking mouse? His heartbeat picking up speed, Stiles is about to hightail it back to his Jeep when, all of a sudden, Kate disappears. She doesn't just turn the corner at the other end of the alleyway. No, she just _disappears_ , flickers out of existence right before Stiles' eyes. Even more confounded, he stands there on the sidewalk for God knows how long, just looking at the spot in which she stood, until someone bumps into him from behind and sends him falling to his hands and knees.

"Oh, sorry, dude," one of the boys Stiles saw earlier says.

"You OK?" his friend asks.

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine," Stiles replies as he gets up, more to himself than the other boy.

"You sure? I mean, you look like you've seen a ghost or somethin'."

Stiles finally manages to look away from the alley at this, and he lets out a hysterical-sounding laugh. " _Ha_! That's a good one! Anyway, I gotta get going. Places to be, people to see... You know how it is," he rambles as he backs away from the two boys, probably making himself look as crazy as he feels. He continues down the street, practically sprinting, until he reaches Alisha's Boutique. The door is unlocked, so he pushes his way inside and slams it behind himself.

"Stiles? That you?" comes a voice from the back room.

"Yeah, it's me," he calls back hoarsely.

Alisha walks out into the boutique's main space. "Good stuff. You ready to get started?"

Desperately in need of something else to occupy his mind, Stiles nods.

"Yeah, let's do this."

* * *

Stiles manages to get through a whole hour without thinking about Kate. His mind is kept well away from her by Alisha and all the instructions she gives him, like how to work the register and where everything is supposed to go, both on the shop floor and in the back room. His job will mainly consist of working the register and restocking the displays, Alisha tells him, while she remains in the back and catches up on all the paperwork she's been neglecting lately. When Alisha thinks he's ready for his first real shift the next day, she gathers her things, ushers him outside, and locks up the boutique.

"Have you eaten yet?" she enquires, spinning her keyring around her index finger.

Stiles frowns confusedly. "No, why?"

Alisha threads her arm through his and marches them down the street to her car, a modest red thing that has seen better days. "Because I was planning on treating you to lunch. That's why," she apprises, smirking when she sees Stiles' expression get even more perplexed. "We're going to be working together for a while, and you're one of my daughter's best friends, so I figured we should get to know each other a bit better. Tell me—what takes your fancy this fine winter afternoon? I feel like being naughty today, so I was thinking of a big greasy cheeseburger. S'that sound like something I could talk you into?"

Stiles is swept up in her bonhomie. "Sure," he grins.

"Excellent. I know just the place, and as a bonus it's close by."

A few minutes later, Alisha pulls Stiles into a small diner a couple of streets over from the boutique. They take one of the free booths and peruse the menus the waitress gives them, eyeing up the different varieties of burgers and milkshakes the place offers. Stiles, his mother's voice echoing in his head, goes for a simple cheeseburger with a side salad, whereas Alisha orders a half-pounder with a side of fries, as well as additional sides of onion rings and garlic bread. Stiles' eyes bug out of his head as she lists it all off.

He'd never have thought that such a small woman could pack away so much.

"What's with the face?" Alisha asks as the waitress walks off again.

"Nothing!" Stiles denies quickly.

"I'll have you know it's my cheat day. I'm going all in, baby!"

Stiles holds his hands up and accepts defeat. He can definitely see where Erica got her feistiness from. "Hey, they're your arteries," he says.

"Damn straight."

* * *

"So, Stiles," Alisha begins once their food has been set down in front of them, "I must admit that I didn't invite you out to lunch just to chat. I did have an ulterior motive." She smiles when Stiles looks up from his burger, his face full of foreboding. "Don't worry, I promise that it's nothing too bad. It's just... As you know, Erica has talked a lot about you, even before she was trying to convince me to take you on, and even though she's attempted to hide it from me and her dad, I'm smart enough to put the pieces together. I suspect that Erica is in a relationship with... _someone_ , and so I have to ask you—is there something you want to tell me?"

Stiles is baffled for a moment, before what Alisha is implying hits him and he bursts out laughing. "Oh God, I'm sorry!" he gasps when he sees her scandalised expression. He drops his burger back to his plate and covers his mouth with his hand as he tries to regain control of himself. "You've got it all wrong. Erica and I aren't together like that."

"You're not?" Alisha queries. "But I was so sure."

His breathing returned to normal, Stiles wipes at his eyes and takes a long sip of his chocolate milkshake through his straw. "Well, I'll tell you that you were right about us both being in relationships," he says, licking his lips, "but unless she grew a beard and an extra appendage between her legs recently, the person I'm dating isn't Erica. Not by a long shot. Don't get me wrong—she's beautiful and everything, and really nice, but I've never looked at her that way. We're just friends."

"Really?"

Stiles takes another bite. "Mmhmm."

"Who's she seeing then?"

"I don't know how comfortable I am talking about this behind her back."

"Commendable, but I think I have a right to know who my teenage daughter is dating."

"True... Have you, y'know, just asked her?"

"No," Alisha deflates. "I know she wouldn't tell me."

Stiles blows out a long breath. He thinks back to the conversation he'd had with Erica a while ago, in which she'd complained at length about how overprotective and suffocating her parents were, and attributes Alisha's concern to this same well-meaning overbearance. It makes him rethink his response. "Well, while I'm still not OK talking about Erica's love life without her knowledge, to her mother of all people, I _will_ say that you don't have anything to worry about," he assures, hoping it will be enough to pacify his convive. "They're good together—really good, in fact—and I'm sure that if you _were_ to ask Erica outright, she'd tell you all about him. She'll have to eventually. She can't hide it forever, after all."

"I suppose... I just worry is all."

"You're her mom. Of course you do."

Alisha observes Stiles silently for a while before speaking again. "I'm glad Erica can call you a friend," she says, finally digging into her food. "It means I don't have to worry _quite_ as much about her. Although I am a little disappointed. I had a whole speech prepared and everything, and now I have to wait to meet my daughter's _actual_ boyfriend give it..."

* * *

After parting ways with Alisha, Stiles hops in his Jeep and returns home. Taking the stairs two at a time, he unpacks his backpack in the bathroom, throwing his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and putting his toiletries in their rightful places, before entering his bedroom and throwing himself down on his bed. He stares up at the ceiling and allows his mind to wander to the previous night, incurring an intense ache in his chest that he knows can only be alleviated by one person. He saw Derek not three hours ago and already he misses him deeply, misses his king-size bed, his strong arms around him, even something as simple as his rare smile.

He's so gone for him, it's ridiculous.

With a sigh, Stiles rolls over onto his side and, since he has no other plans for the afternoon, allows his eyes to slip closed, the early hour at which he awoke catching up to him now. He merely drifts in between sleep and wakefulness for a while, until there comes a loud bang from downstairs, muted slightly by the walls. It startles him back to alertness.

Leaving the bed, Stiles opens his bedroom door and calls downstairs:

"Scott? Melissa?"

Receiving no response, he descends the stairs to the ground floor and peeks into the living room to find it vacant. Neither McCall is in sight, nor does Stiles hear anything to indicate that they're in a different room. Perhaps the noise he heard was just his imagination, or maybe one of the McCalls came home briefly to grab something and slammed the door as they left. Settling on this as the most logical explanation, Stiles shrugs to himself and is about to try again for a nap when the bang sounds for a second time.

It comes from the kitchen.

Thinking that he should investigate, Stiles cautiously walks down the hall and enters the room. At first he can't find anything that looks out of place, but after he steps further inside and makes his way around the island, he cries out in terror when he sees Kate's supine form in the middle of the floor, her skin deadly white and a pool of congealing blood spread out like a sick halo around her head. The hilt of the knife Stiles had stolen from Chris Argent's hunter friend sticks out of her right eye, while her left stares unseeingly straight up at the ceiling.

Stiles scrambles to get away from her, but when he turns around he slips in her blood and his feet fly out from under him. Landing with a crash on his back, Stiles groans and holds a hand to his temple as he reorients himself. Turning his head, he finds himself lying right next to Kate, her blood soaking into the back of his T-shirt and jeans. As much as he wants to get up, to run from the house altogether, he can't seem to muster the energy to do so. All he can do is stare at the side of Kate's pale face as the seconds tick by. Remembering his earlier encounter with her and how she had vanished so strangely, Stiles reaches out with a quivering hand and touches his index finger to her cheek, aiming to see if she's really there.

The pad of his finger touches cold skin.

He jerks his hand back and finally regains full autonomy of his body, managing to stumble to his feet. But before he can bolt from the room, Stiles feels ice shoot up his arm. Looking down, his breath stops when he sees Kate's hand wrapped around his wrist in an iron grip.

Her eye stares blankly into his.

"Hello, Stiles," she says, her voice sickeningly sweet.

"H-how?" he stutters.

Kate's lips twist into a cruel smile. "I'm gonna make you pay."

With her free hand she grabs the hilt of the knife still embedded inside her eye and rips it out. It leaves behind an empty, bloody socket, and the blade itself is slathered in brain matter, making Stiles feel like he's going to throw up. Kate grins at him, and he has a second to register the glint of metal before she thrusts the knife at his face.

Then, everything goes black.


	20. Ignoring the Problem

When Stiles comes to, he doesn't immediately remember where he is. He sits up slowly, his head pounding and his ears ringing so loudly that it takes him a few seconds to realise that he's being spoken to. Looking up, he sees Allison crouched beside him, wearing an expression of deep concern. Scott stands just behind her, his face scrunched up unattractively in confusion and judgement—judgement for what, Stiles doesn't know, but with Scott it could be anything. He doesn't really have the patience to deal with it right now anyway, so he switches his attention back to Allison and takes the hand she offers him. With her help he stands up and, because his legs are a little wobbly, uses the counter to stabilise himself as he concentrates hard on the words that pour in a torrent from her mouth:

"Seriously, Stiles, you're freaking me out!" Allison exclaims.

"Yeah, what the hell are you playing at?" Scott chimes in with a sneer.

Stiles is unable to answer the galling beta, because he himself doesn't have the faintest clue as to what's going on. "I don't— How did I get down here?" he asks, mystified as he looks around the kitchen. He must be missing some time, because the last thing he can recall is lying down on his bed and attempting to get in a nap before dinner.

Allison's eyes become large and round. "You mean you don't remember?"

"No... What happened?"

She shares a look with Scott.

"Well, we're not really sure ourselves," she says uncertainly. "Scott and I were just hanging out in the living room when you came home and went straight upstairs. Scott and I went up, too, a couple of minutes later, because things were getting...good." She breaks eye contact with Stiles, the pale skin of her face adopting a red hue. "Anyway, we weren't really paying much attention to anything else, but then we heard you yelling from down here, followed by this huge thud. When we came down to investigate we found you out cold on the floor. You honestly don't remember anything?"

Stiles' memory is jogged by Allison's recounting, a series of images flashing in front of his eyes. He remembers now how Kate had appeared to him, remembers the knife coming at him, but there's a niggling sensation in the back of his mind that compels him to keep this information to himself. He wants to confide the horrific experience in his packmates, but the compulsion to keep it a secret is indomitable.

So he lies.

"No, I don't," he says.

"That doesn't sound good... I think we should take you to the hospital and get you checked over," Allison suggests. She looks up at Scott, who remains disgruntled at having his time alone with her interrupted. "Is your mom working right now?" she asks. "Because if she is, then we can take him straight to her and avoid having to wait."

"C'mon, guys! I don't think that's necessary," Stiles demurs.

"But you might have brain damage or something!"

"Really, I feel fine now," Stiles insists. "I probably just tripped over my own feet."

Allison shakes her head. "But—"

"Ali." Scott puts a hand on her shoulder. "Just leave it. He won't change his mind."

"That's right," Stiles agrees.

Allison seems reluctant to drop it, but in the end acquiesces. "Fine..." she mutters. "But if something else happens I'm dragging you there, even if I have to knock you out myself first."

* * *

_\- Monday, February 28th, 2011 -_

Stiles arrives at school half an hour before his first class is supposed to start. As he'd promised Isaac, he waits outside by himself, leaning against one of the railings that run up either side of the main steps. There are a few other early birds milling about, tired-looking teenagers and teachers alike, yawning and sipping coffee or checking their phones. Stiles even sees a couple of his peers frantically scrabbling to complete what he presumes is homework that's due later in the day. He, too, is exhausted, because he'd been awake most of the night, convinced that every little sound he heard was caused by another hallucination. His phone was clutched in his hand, his fingers poised to dial Derek's number, but the same compulsion he'd felt with Allison and Scott was still present. It prevented him from seeking comfort from his alpha, and it prevents him now from acting as if things are anything but normal.

After he's been there for ten minutes, Stiles sees a tall figure approaching from his right and turns his head in its direction. Isaac walks slowly, looking charily at everyone around him. Stiles understands why, because he went through the same thing when he moved in with Melissa—news travels fast amongst the nosy student body, and the tale of Isaac being taken out of his father's house was no different. It had spread like wildfire, although no one got it quite right. Even so, some theories that got around about the abuse Isaac had suffered were close enough to the truth to cause a lot of invasive staring now.

Stiles pushes away from the railing when Isaac reaches him.

"Hey," he greets cheerily. "You made it!"

"Yeah..." Isaac mumbles.

Stiles doesn't miss the uneasy way the taller boy shuffles from foot to foot. People continue to look their way, even more obviously than before, every one of them likely wondering with sick interest what he and Isaac are talking about. Feeling uneasy himself, Stiles inclines his head toward the school and slings an arm around Isaac's shoulders.

"C'mon, we should get inside, away from prying eyes," he says.

Isaac is docile as Stiles leads him from the purlieu of the parking lot and through the school doors, just trails after him with his eyes trained to the floor. Stiles takes them to the hallway that contains his locker and feels relief when he sees that it's free of strangers. It isn't free of everybody, though—Lydia, Erica and Boyd are already gathered right in front of Stiles' locker, waiting for him. He slows his gait temporarily, unsure of whether or not Isaac is ready for all of that, but then Lydia looks their way and he knows it's too late.

"Oh dear..." Stiles whispers.

Isaac finally raises his head and frowns. "What?"

Erica's shout is Isaac's answer: "Stiles! Hurry up and get that fine ass over here!"

"That's what," Stiles replies needlessly. He turns to the skittish boy and gives him an encouraging smile that is timidly returned. "They're good people, but they can be a lot to handle, even for me, so if you get overwhelmed at any point, just walk away and we'll try this again some other time. No one will take offence or anything, I promise. You ready?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Isaac says, trailing behind Stiles.

"Act normal and don't spook him," Stiles instructs under his breath, knowing that Lydia will hear him and relay the message to the other two. He trusts Lydia and Boyd to do this anyway but thinks that it can't hurt to give Erica a little nudge in the right direction. Sure enough, said girl peers at Isaac curiously when the distance between them is closed, making Isaac cower a little, until Lydia elbows the blonde in the ribs and narrows her eyes.

"Guys, this is Isaac. Isaac, the guys," Stiles introduces.

The shy boy waves at them meekly.

"Nice to meet you. So, Stiles, you up to anything later?" Lydia asks, sweeping her hair back over the shoulder of her white blouse. "Erica and I are going shopping after school. Fancy joining us?" She looks him up and down and wrinkles her nose distastefully, clearly disapproving of his outfit, a green T-shirt, a red, white and brown plaid overshirt, and a pair of dark-blue jeans that are so old the denim is frayed at the hems and knees. "At her request I'm gonna be helping her a bit with her makeup and wardrobe and, uh...you could probably use a few pointers as well. Those jeans are some of the most ill-fitting things I've ever seen, and those plaid shirts just _have_ to go. Isaac's welcome, too, of course."

Stiles looks down at himself and frowns. "What's wrong with my shirt?"

"You really have to ask me that?"

He huffs. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'll be busy."

"Oh, right!" Erica interjects. "Today's your first day working for my mom, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"I hope it goes well."

"Thanks. I'm pretty excited about it."

"Fine, you're out," Lydia sighs. She turns to Isaac, who looks back at her like a deer caught in headlights. "What about you?"

"You can say no," Stiles whispers. "She's not that scary, really."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Please. I'm terrifying and you damn well know it."

"What about me?" Erica chirps. "Am I terrifying?"

"Oh yeah," Stiles nods sagely. "Totally."

Before anyone can say anything else, the bell rings and brings their conversation to a halt. Stiles jumps and looks around to find that the hallway has filled up considerably while they were talking—more time must have passed than he thought. Hurriedly he grabs the books he needs from his locker and shoves them in his backpack, before hurrying after Erica to their first class of the day, which he is surprised to learn they share with Isaac. He takes the seat in the back-left corner of the room and gestures for Isaac to take the one right next to him, while Erica flanks his other side with a somewhat evil smirk.

"Oh boy..." Stiles mutters. "Here we go."

* * *

When it's time for lunch, Stiles meets everyone outside the cafeteria and scans through them for Isaac. He sees Lydia talking quietly with Boyd, and Scott and Allison standing off to the side, necking noisily as per usual, but he doesn't see Erica or Isaac. He'd had to leave the newest addition to his friendship circle in the blonde's questionable hands after first period, and he's worried now that she'll have managed to scare him off without anyone else there to put a stop to her intrusive questions. But then they come down the hallway, and his fears are assuaged when he sees how swimmingly they're getting on.

Erica talks animatedly at Isaac, and Stiles feels a small pang of jealously when something she says elicits a small smile from the other boy. Shaking it off as stupid, Stiles instead forces himself to be glad that Isaac is fitting in and, when their small group is completed, walks with the others inside the cafeteria.

After they pass through the doors, Stiles notes with annoyance that Isaac's presence draws yet more speculative stares. A hush doesn't fall but it's a close thing, and without really thinking about it Stiles steps closer to Isaac's side, forming a protective circle of sorts around him with Erica, Boyd and Lydia. He meets the eyes of everyone he sees trying to get a look at the curly-haired boy, glaring at them until they are cowed and return to their own worlds one by one. The pack is left alone eventually and, once their trays are laden with their lunches, they search for a table, finding one in the back corner of the room that has just enough free spots. Stiles pushes Isaac down into the seat between himself and Lydia and skips right to devouring his small pot of tapioca pudding.

Conversation flows surprisingly naturally, until there comes an unwanted visitor.

"Well, well, well... I was wondering when you'd show up again."

Stiles turns to see Jackson standing pompously by their table, looking smug with a couple of his buddies from the lacrosse team just behind him.

"Go away, Jackass," Erica spits.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll scratch your eyes out."

Jackson scoffs derisively. "Whatever, Reyes. You couldn't do shit."

"What do you want?" Stiles demands.

"Oh, nothing at all, really... I just wanted to check up on my friend here," Jackson explains, patting Isaac on the shoulder. He grins evilly when the other boy flinches and jerks away, knocking his chair over with a loud bang as he leaps out of it. The noise draws the attention of the whole cafeteria, and now a hush truly _does_ fall, everyone waiting on baited breath to see what will happen next. "How's it going, Isaac?" Jackson asks with facetious concern. "I heard that daddy finally went too far, and I've been so worried about you this past week."

Stiles pushes his own chair back with a screech and stands between them.

"Back off," he orders.

"You think you can take me, Stilinski? _You_?"

"Maybe not a few months ago, but now? Hell yes, I do."

"Hmm, look who finally decided to grow a backbone! Good for you."

"Yup, now get out of here before I break yours."

"C'mon, now! It's just a little bit of harmless fun between friends, right?" Jackson asks rhetorically, sharing a laugh with his cronies.

"Mmhmm, ‘cause domestic violence is so funny."

"Well, you would know."

Before Stiles can recover, Lydia appears next to Jackson and taps him once on the shoulder. She gives him a saccharine smile when he glances at her and then, without any pomp or circumstance, reels back and punches him right in the face. The cafeteria releases a collective gasp as Jackson lands unconscious on his back, blood streaming from his presumably broken nose, but Stiles doesn't notice. Like the rest of the student body, he's too busy gaping at Lydia, who up until now he'd always thought of as the antithesis to any form of physical violence. She'd rather hurt with words, but perhaps becoming a werewolf has changed that about her.

"Damn, Lyds..." Stiles gapes.

Jackson's two nameless friends don't linger for long. They stare down at the prone form of their leader, faces aghast, until Lydia turns her eyes on them and they scarper as swiftly as they can, both clearly fearful of becoming the next targets of her ire. Once they're gone it's like a switch has been flipped—Lydia returns to her usual demure self, insouciantly examining her painted nails for any breaks or chips like she didn't just cold-cock her ex-boyfriend in front of over a hundred people.

Whispers break out across the cafeteria now that the show is over, some students regarding Lydia with disapproval, others with awe. Stiles is decidedly in the latter camp. Lydia looks one last time at Jackson, her eyes full of disgust, before she leaves him on the floor, retakes her seat at the table and carries on eating like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

"Now, where were we?"

Stiles retakes his seat, too.

"You didn't have to do that, y'know," he says.

"I know."

"Aren't you worried about getting detention? Or getting expelled?"

"Oh, please!" Lydia scoffs. "They wouldn't dare expel me. Not with my GPA."

* * *

That evening, after he has completed his first day officially working for Erica's mother, Stiles leaves the boutique to find the sky painted a vibrant pink as the sun nears the horizon. He doesn't really want to head home yet despite the time, so he drives in the opposite direction, toward Derek's loft. He grins to himself when he pulls to a stop in the parking lot and sees the Camaro taking up its usual spot in front of the building entrance, meaning that Derek is home and will have heard his arrival. Once the elevator has taken him up to the top floor, Stiles strides across to the door to the loft and yanks it open to find Derek sitting on one of the sofas, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a heather-grey tank top. The same book he was reading a couple of days ago is again open in his lap.

"Hey," the alpha says without looking up.

"Hey, Sourwolf," Stiles replies, sliding the door shut with a muted bang. He plops down on the same sofa and positions himself so that he's lying across the length of it, his legs ending up draped across a grumbling Derek's lap and his head propped against the armrest.

"I'm trying to read here," Derek complains with a sigh.

"S'nothing stopping you."

Derek grumbles some more before going quiet again and returning his attention to his book. Stiles smirks in victory and simply lies there, staring at the side of his wolf's face and letting the time pass by. If Derek feels his eyes he doesn't say, and for a while the only sounds in the room are their soft breathing and the occasional rustle of paper as Derek turns the pages of his book. Eventually, though, the peace is disturbed when Stiles' stomach rumbles loudly and catches Derek's attention.

"You hungry?" the alpha asks.

"I could eat, yeah," Stiles says sheepishly.

After waiting for Stiles to move his legs off of his lap, Derek gets to his feet and vanishes into the kitchen. Stiles hears the fridge and a few drawers and cupboards being opened, followed by the sound of boiling water, and wanders after Derek to see what he's cooking up. He discovers a large saucepan filled with rice and a frying pan filled with diced chicken, peppers and some kind of sauce sitting side by side on the stove, sizzling away on a low heat.

"I didn't know you cooked," Stiles comments.

Derek looks up from where he's chopping up a clove of garlic on a cutting board. "Why? Did you think I just lived off takeout or something?"

"No, I guess not..."

"Takeout is alright every once in a while, when you don't feel like making the effort to cook something yourself or it just takes your fancy," Derek explains. He uses his knife to slide the finely chopped garlic in with the chicken and peppers, then sprinkles in some salt and pepper. "But you'd get sick of it quickly. I've lived by myself for years now, Stiles, ever since I managed to convince Laura to let me get my own place back in New York. I didn't really take into account then that she did all the cooking in our shared apartment, so I had to learn very, _very_ fast how to cook for myself or risk starving to death."

"Alright, alright, point made," Stiles protests, rolling his eyes.

Derek laughs softly and checks on the rice. "Not much longer now."

"Can I help?"

"You can get the plates."

Stiles searches through the cupboards until he finds the right one. He pulls out two plates and sets them down on the countertop next to the stove and also grabs some cutlery from the drying rack next to the sink. True to his word, a couple of minutes later, after the rice has been drained, Derek dishes the food out in generous portions and carries both plates out into the living room, with Stiles hot on his heels. "Pick something to watch," he instructs as he gets comfortable on the sofa, his food resting on a cushion on his lap.

Looking through the selection of DVDs, Stiles hums his approval when he discovers several new additions to Derek's meagre collection, including the extended _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. "Someone's been shopping, I see," he comments, throwing a grin back at Derek. It leaves his lips quickly when he sees someone familiar just behind the alpha, blood covering the right side of her face. He inhales sharply and stares, horrified, as Kate proceeds to drape herself across Derek's shoulders, her eye never leaving his. Derek doesn't react to her at all, of course, because she's all in Stiles' head.

"Everything OK?" Derek asks, forehead creased in concern.

Stiles swallows tightly and tears his gaze away from Kate, again feeling compelled to hide what he's seeing. "It's nothing," he lies, reaching for _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and sticking it in the blu-ray player. He walks slowly back over to the sofa and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge Kate's presence any more than he already has, the juvenile hope running through his head that maybe if he ignores her, she'll go away.

He fast finds out that this isn't going to work.

"What's the matter, Stiles?" Kate simpers.

Stiles valiantly keeps his attention on the TV screen as the opening voiceover starts, but he can still see her out of the corner of his eye, can see her rubbing her hands over Derek's chest and nibbling seductively on his ear. Derek remains unresponsive to her imaginary touches, while Stiles grits his teeth and fights with herculean effort to keep his breathing and heart rate at a steady pace. He takes his plate from the coffee table and starts eating, perfunctorily shovelling chicken and rice in his mouth.

He tastes none of it.

"You're gonna hurt him," Kate says, spitting out Derek's earlobe. "So much."

Stiles starts singing in his head, but Kate's voice is louder.

"He'll never really be yours, y'know," she goes on, slinking around to the front of the sofa and squeezing herself into the small space between he and Derek. She slings her arm around Stiles' shoulders and pulls him closer so that she can whisper right in his ear, the sound of her voice and the feel of her breath sending shivers down his spine: "You know he'll always be mine, don't you? In all the ways that count—I had his gullible heart first. I had _him_ first, in the backseat of my car. It was a wild night, let me tell you, and he was so desperate to please me. When he was inside me, God...you should've seen the look on his face, like I was the most amazing thing he'd ever experienced. I think he'd have proposed to me then and there if he'd had a ring on him. It would've been adorable were it not so nauseating."

Kate laughs darkly before looking at Stiles with feigned sympathy. "He'll never look at you that way when he's inside you. You're used and broken, so you'll never be able to live up to me. But, then again, you've never been good at living up to people's expectations, have you? That's why your mom chose to leave you instead of fighting her illness. It's why your dad hates you and started drowning himself at the bottom of a bottle—it was the only way he could deal with having to see your whiny face every day... It's only a matter of time until everyone else realises just what a waste of space you are and ditches you, too. That is, if you don't kill them all first."

Stiles jerks like he's been electrocuted.

"Ah, that caught your attention, didn't it?" Kate smirks, placing her cold hand right in the middle of his chest. "I can see it now, can _feel_ the darkness you have within you. It's growing rapidly, and soon it'll burst out and destroy everything around you..."

Like he's far away, Stiles can hear Derek saying his name, but he can't concentrate.

Kate sighs and pats his chest.

"You've already killed once, after all," she states.

"No..." Stiles gasps.

"It's just a matter of time. And I'll be there to watch it all."

With a high-pitched cackle, Kate vanishes just as suddenly as she'd appeared, thrusting Stiles back into reality. Derek is kneeling in front of him, looking panicked as _The Fellowship of the Ring_ plays forgotten on the TV. Stiles stares down at him until he feels wetness on his face and realises that he's been crying, at which point he hastily wipes at his eyes and leaps from the sofa, his half-empty plate clattering to the floor.

"Stiles?" Derek calls nervously, still kneeling.

"I need to—" Stiles pants, suddenly out of breath. "I-I need to get out of here."

Derek reaches for him. "Stiles, wait!"

"No!" Stiles yells, racing for the door. "Just leave me alone!"

He doesn't stop until he's in his Jeep and speeding away, leaving Derek in his rearview mirror.


	21. You Can't Pretend for Ever

_\- Sunday, March 6th, 2011 -_

Kate has become a ubiquitous presence in Stiles' life.

She's been with him at school, whispering in his ear while he tried unsuccessfully to pay attention to what his teachers were saying. She was there during his latest training session with Chris, marring the occasion when, at the end, Chris had presented Stiles with his first gun. She was even in his bedroom every night—he lay there with Kate sitting at the foot of his bed, unable to sleep because she kept rambling on about how dangerous he was. He's been worn down, his exhaustion making it easier for her to worm her way inside his head, until he actually starts believing the vitriol she spews.

It's like he's been split into two halves.

One half knows logically that Kate isn't right, that he loves his friends and would never do anything to intentionally hurt them. But the other half, the one Kate has managed to enthral, drags the first down like a heavy weight attached to his ankles, pulling him beneath the surface of a great body of water until he feels like he's drowning. Word of his freakout in the loft has spread, Stiles knows, and now that his strange behaviour has been made known to his packmates, whatever force had compelled him to pretend as if everything was normal has changed, urging him instead to avoid them altogether. He keeps his distance from them in school and rebuffs any offers that are sent his way to get together once it's over. He makes flimsy excuses and returns home as fast as he can every afternoon, because part of him believes now that they aren't safe around him. But it's hard. It's _so_ fucking hard.

Derek has tried to see him repeatedly over the past week, since Stiles hadn't returned any of his texts, but Stiles had begged a conflicted Melissa to send the alpha away every time. It killed him to do it, because he wanted nothing more than to sink into Derek's embrace and unburden himself, but Kate's words from Monday kept ringing in his head.

He knows it's better this way.

Kate's told him as much.

Now, Stiles sits in his bedroom after having Derek sent away for a fifth time.

Kate sits next to him, regarding him with an expression that's almost compassionate. She combs her fingers through his hair, a touch from which he would've previously been tempted to shy away. Experience tells him that she'd just follow him, though, so he stays where he is and lets her do what she wants. He hears the front door close and then footsteps coming up the stairs, before his bedroom door swings inward and Melissa enters dressed in her scrubs, looking like she means business.

Stiles blinks at her.

"I don't know what's happened between you two, but I do _not_ like being put in the middle of it," Melissa chides, putting her hands on her hips. "I know you know that all this hiding won't make whatever problems you're having go away. So, the next time Derek comes over trying to talk to you, can you _please_ just see him? Actually, you know what? The next time he comes over, I'm just going to send him straight up."

"Ooh, she's spunky!" Kate comments. "I like her."

"Now, I have to get to work," Melissa sighs. "Just...think about it, OK?"

"OK," Stiles accedes quietly.

After giving him a sad look, Melissa goes back downstairs and leaves him alone again with Kate. The blonde chuckles to herself and moves her cold hand down from his hair to wrap gently around the back of his neck, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Do you see what I mean now, Stiles?" she asks sweetly. "It's already happening. You're making everyone around you upset, even your surrogate mom. The darkness inside you is growing day by day, and soon it'll consume everything. Those you love will end up dead simply because you were a part of their pitifully short lives. But there's still a way you can save them."

"Isn't just staying away from them enough?" Stiles croaks.

"I'm afraid not."

"Then how?"

"Oh, don't start playing dumb now, Stiles. You already know how," Kate tuts. She purses her lips disapprovingly and strengthens her hand around the back of Stiles' neck, making him wince. "You've even got a handy-dandy little tool in your Jeep that'll get the job done quick, courtesy of my dear brother. Then everyone will be safe."

"Y-you mean...?" Stiles stutters, starting to shake. When Kate nods, he wrenches himself free of her grasp and leaps from the bed. "No! I won't do that!" he spits, the part of him that he still has full control over overpowering the other, an odd sensation that feels like waking up after a long slumber. Whatever hold Kate has on him weakens, and when he moves his foot experimentally his eyes widen when he finds that it actually obeys him. With one last glare at Kate he turns away and strides from the room, taking the stairs two at a time until he reaches the ground floor. He can hear Kate tailing him, trying to talk him back under her thrall, but he blocks her out as best he can as he searches the house, looking for Melissa, or anyone else to whom he can spill the secret he's been forced to keep for the past week.

Unfortunately, he finds the place empty, Melissa having already left for the hospital.

"Damn it!" Stiles explodes, punching the kitchen wall just as Kate enters.

"Stiles—"

"Don't!" he yells over her. "Stay the fuck out of my head!" Crouching down low to the floor, he winds his fingers through his hair and clenches his eyes shut as he feels his control slipping again, Kate's influence taking over. He whimpers and presses his forehead to his knees, whispering a mantra of, "You're not real," over and over again until he feels hands on his shoulders and a voice calling his name. A masculine voice.

Cautiously, Stiles looks up and finds Derek kneeling next to him, his expression terrified.

"Stiles..." the wolf says. "What's wrong with you?"

"She won't stop," Stiles responds brokenly.

"Who?"

Kate appears over Derek's shoulder then, and the mere sight of her bloody face is enough to make Stiles clam up. He stutters out something unintelligible and attempts to move away from Derek, but Derek doesn't let him go. The alpha's grip on his shoulders is strong enough to bruise as he tries to force Stiles to look at him, but Stiles is unable to break his eyes from Kate's. She mouths something to him, something that increases the weight pulling him slowly back into the water, and Stiles snaps. He shoves Derek away hard and stops momentarily, astonished, when it actually works and Derek is thrown backward, catching himself on the kitchen island. But then Stiles is moving again, darting to the front door and out to his Jeep.

It's futile, trying to put distance between himself and Kate when she can show up anywhere she likes, but Stiles isn't thinking rationally. Tears of frustration build in his eyes as he fumbles to stick his keys in the ignition, his hands shaking so hard that he keeps missing, but in the end he manages it with a breathless laugh. Peeling out of the driveway so fast the wheels squeal, he drives without a goal, just wanting to get away from the house. As he nears the edge of town, trees blurring past on both sides, Stiles feels a familiar sensation ripple through him. He pulls over to the side of the road, flings open the door and stumbles out into the cold, where he hangs his head and sinks to his hands and knees.

Sure enough, a moment later, Kate is back.

"How long are you gonna keep this up?" she asks, sounding bored.

Flinching, Stiles doesn't respond, just keeps staring at the dirt beneath his hands.

"It's getting tiresome."

"Fine... You want me to use that gun, huh?!" Stiles seethes. "I'll fucking use it, then!"

Stomping back over to his Jeep, he reaches through the still-open door and yanks open the glovebox. Inside is the fancy wooden box that Chris Argent had given just yesterday, stored there instead of at home because Melissa didn't want it in the house. He tears the box open and wraps his fingers around cold metal before spinning on his heel and aiming the pistol at Kate. For a second she looks shocked, but then her expression becomes pleased.

"C'mon, I dare you," she taunts, using Stiles' own words against him. "It'll be _fun_."

He pulls the trigger.

Just as the bullet is about to hit her, Kate flickers and vanishes, revealing Derek standing right behind her. The bullet pierces his shoulder, and he gasps in pain and staggers back a couple of paces, his hand coming up to clutch at the wound. Stiles is horrified, the gun slipping from his grasp and hitting the ground with a thud, and through the white noise in his ears he hears Kate's disembodied voice: "I told you you'd hurt him."

Stiles' heart shatters when he sees the expression on Derek's face.

There's confusion, and pain, of course, but the predominant emotion on his rugged features is hurt, as if he can't believe that Stiles would do this to him.

Stiles can't believe it, either.

Shaking himself from his stupor, he rushes forward with tears flowing freely now and catches Derek before he can fall. He babbles as he guides Derek to his Jeep, saying vehemently that he didn't mean it and begging hysterically for forgiveness, but Derek is silent apart from the occasional groan or renewed gasp of pain. Once the wolf has settled in the passenger seat, Stiles just about manages to maintain the wherewithal to race around to the driver's side and get the engine going again. He snaps up the gun and carelessly tosses it and its box in the footwell before slamming the door closed and pressing his foot down on the gas. He lets instinct guide him, tears still coming, until they reach the veterinary clinic.

"Please, please be OK," he warbles as he helps Derek get to the clinic's back door.

Inside, he finds Scott assisting his boss in treating a beagle.

Both turn when the door bangs open.

"Help!" Stiles pleads.

Scott's boss, a bald, dark-skinned man with a calm demeanour, is on them instantly, leaving Scott to tend to the beagle while he rushes over and helps Stiles move Derek to lean against the wall. Once the injured man is situated on the floor, Stiles backs off and watches helplessly as Scott's boss—Deaton, he remembers now—takes a pair of trauma shears and cuts through Derek's shirt, exposing the left side of his chest and the gunshot wound in his shoulder. Stiles feels a fleeting sense of déjà vu, his mind flashing back to when he and Derek were in this exact same position a month and a half ago.

"How did this happen?" Deaton asks, glancing at Stiles.

Stiles just shakes his head, unable to speak.

The vet nods, seeming to understand, and retrieves a pair of long tweezers, a kidney dish and some sterile cloth. It's torturous for Stiles, simply being a bystander as Deaton begins digging the bullet out—he flinches violently every time Derek hisses through his teeth, because he knows that his wolf is in pain because of _him_. It's all his fault, and based off of the fact that Derek won't look at him and the way Scott won't look away, he isn't the only one to reach that conclusion. There's no love lost between the two werewolves but that doesn't matter right now, not when Scott is looking at him like he's a cold-blooded killer.

"What the hell did you do?" the beta asks scornfully.

It's too much.

"I have to—" Stiles gasps, running for the door.

* * *

Derek can hear Stiles' fading footsteps, followed by the rumble of the Jeep's engine, but he doesn't try to chase after him. He's still processing the events of the last week, how things devolved so rapidly from the perfection that was their night together last Saturday to _this_. Although Stiles _did_ shoot him, Derek is hesitant to put the blame entirely on the boy. Clearly something is very wrong in Stiles' mind, and Derek wishes ardently that he had the answers. He feels guilty for being unable to push through his own sense of betrayal, which is likely unjustified anyway, in order to soothe him, to even raise his eyes to him. But, because there's nothing he can do for now, he puts it aside for later and focuses on the present.

Deaton is still digging around in his shoulder, making him wince, until finally he extracts the bullet and drops it with a clinking sound into the kidney dish. At the vet's instruction, Derek picks up one of the sterile cloths, cleans up as much of the blood on his arm as he can, and then holds it over the wound.

"Can you tell if the bullet was poisoned?" Deaton asks calmly.

Derek nods. "I can feel it."

"Do you know what breed of wolfsbane it contained?"

"No, but Chris Argent should. It was his."

Deaton's eyebrows rise slightly in surprise, his first show of emotion since Derek and Stiles had arrived. "Chris Argent shot you?" the vet enquires curiously. He picks up the bullet, turns it over in his palm, and hums quietly to himself when he finds the Argent insignia on the base, all but confirming Derek's accusation. "I'm afraid I don't understand—I thought you were on good terms nowadays, ever since his sister met her end and you worked together to dispatch your uncle. Why would he shoot you?"

"He didn't," Derek corrects.

"Then who?"

"Just...get him here. I only want to have to explain this once."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Chris Argent enters the back of the clinic with a box in his hand, similar to the one Derek had seen in Stiles' car. He walks right over to Derek, not paying Deaton or Scott any attention at all, and crouches down on the floor next to him, a concerned frown on his face. He looks like he wants to ask a multitude of questions but thankfully chooses to wait until the reason for his presence has been taken care of.

"You know the drill, right?" Chris asks Derek.

The wolf grits his teeth. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."

Chris takes one of the wolfsbane bullets from the box, cracks it open and tips its contents out onto the floor in front of Derek. Then, with a lighter that he pulls from the pocket of his jeans, he sets the small pile of purplish powder aflame and steps back as it burns and spits up a flurry of sparks and smoke. Once it's died down, Derek pulls the cloth away from his bullet wound and, after taking a deep breath, reluctantly smears what's left of the wolfsbane powder into the injury. A second passes, during which no one moves, and then intense pain zaps through his entire body. Though he tries to breathe through it, it fast becomes too much and he ends up convulsing on the floor. He feels hands on him, holding him as still as they can, until the pain eventually passes and all that's left is the dull ache of his freshly cleansed wound starting to heal, flesh knitting itself back together.

"You good?" Chris asks, helping Derek to sit up from where he'd slid onto his back.

"Fine," Derek replies once his breaths come more easily. He waves off the hunter's assistance and pushes to his feet by himself, then looks down at the state of his navy-blue Henley, which has been thoroughly ruined both by Deaton's shears and his own blood. The shirt was one of his favourites, purely because it was a gift from Laura for his last birthday, and he really wishes he'd put on something different that morning.

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. "So, why am I here?"

"Yes, I _would_ finally love to receive an explanation for this," Deaton chimes in.

Derek sighs. "I'm honestly not sure myself."

The vet tilts his head to the side confusedly. "Meaning?"

Scott butts in then, his tone impatient: "It was Stiles, wasn't it?"

" _Stiles_ did this?"

Derek nods. "Yeah, he did. But I don't think it's as simple as that... I'm worried."

He proceeds to explain to the vet and the hunter everything that he knows. "I think it all started last Monday, when Stiles came to the loft in the afternoon," he says, moving to lean against the countertop. "Everything was fine—I made dinner, and then we were going to watch the first _Lord of the Rings_ movie—but a little while into it he just...flipped out. I don't know why. He left like the place was on fire." Derek winces at his own simile. "I tried to talk to him about it several times over the week but he kept avoiding me. Tonight, I tried for a fifth time, only to be turned away again by Melissa, and I'd had enough. I was planning on confronting Stiles as soon as Melissa left for work, and that's when I heard him talking to someone. Only, he was alone in the house."

This gets some raised eyebrows.

"I listened to what he was saying but it didn't make any sense to me," Derek goes on, feeling even more confused himself now that he's laying it all out. "Something about ‘staying away from them', whatever that means. Then he started freaking out, so I went in to calm him down and managed to get a little bit out of him before he ran. Again."

"What did he say?" Chris interpolates.

"That ‘she' wouldn't leave him alone. Whoever he was talking to, I guess."

"That's...worrying."

Derek nods his agreement. "You're telling me. Anyway, he ran to his Jeep and drove off, and I followed him all the way to the edge of town. I lost track of him briefly but found him again on the side of the road, where he pulled out the gun you gave him," Derek glances at Chris, "and pointed it at me. He wasn't looking at _me_ , though. It was like... It was like there was someone standing between us, someone only he could see. I was too stunned to move out of the way, and then he fired. That's about it."

"He's been acting weird at school, too," Scott pipes up, filling the ensuing silence.

"How?" Derek demands.

"Like, avoiding us and stuff. He seemed distracted by something."

Derek stares incredulously at the beta. "And no one thought to mention this to me, not even after I told you all about what happened at the loft?"

"I didn't think it mattered. I thought he was just being even weirder than he normally is."

Derek narrows his eyes and sends a growl Scott's way to shut him up. "Whatever, I'll deal with you later," he says, turning away. "Clearly something is happening to Stiles, and now we just have to figure out what all of this means before things get any worse."

"I think I may have theory," Deaton says then, walking from the room without any sort of elaboration. He returns shortly, carrying with him a large leather-bound book with a strange symbol on the cover. Derek has never seen anything like it, but he doesn't ask about it yet and instead watches silently as Deaton places the book on the examination table and opens it to somewhere in the middle. The vet flips through some of the brittle-looking pages with great care until he reaches something that makes him smile in a self-satisfied manner. "Ah, here it is," he announces, gesturing for the others to gather closer so that they can see. "It's a potion, I believe, one that's usually used to exact vengeance on someone. It reacts differently depending on what the brewer's intentions are, but it could very well bring on hallucinations like the ones Stiles seems to have been experiencing of late."

"How can you be sure that's what this is?" Chris queries.

"From what little I know of Mr. Stilinski, he's not one who would willingly keep something like this a secret, correct?" Deaton asks, looking to Derek for confirmation. When the alpha gives it he continues: "Well, to make the drinker more susceptible to its other manipulative effects, this potion comes with a nasty side effect that's designed to isolate. This would explain why he didn't tell anyone when the hallucinations first started happening."

"Any idea what he's been seeing?" Derek asks.

"No. You'll have to ask Stiles once I give him the counter-potion."

"You can do that?"

"Yes, though it'll take some time to brew properly. It requires some precise measurements, so perhaps somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour," Deaton says. He begins to pull open some of the cupboards around the room, searching for jars and bottles of ingredients that he lines up next to the book. "I think it would be best if someone went to collect Mr. Stilinski ahead of time, just in case. He might very well end up hurting someone else or even himself if left at the mercy of the hallucinations. Scott, why don't you gather some of your friends and search for him? Derek is still in no shape to go and I'll require Mr. Argent's help in brewing this."

"Sure, I guess," Scott acquiesces, heading for the door.

Once the beta is gone, Deaton conjures a stool seemingly from nowhere and plants it in front of Derek, who is still recovering from being shot up with wolfsbane. Derek thanks the vet somewhat grudgingly and sits down, feeling helpless while the other two men set to work. He hopes that his pack will be able to find Stiles in time.

* * *

Stiles paces back and forth in his dark bedroom, tearing at his hair as self-loathing tears spring to his eyes. Kate sits on the foot of his bed, one leg crossed casually over the other and a pleased smirk on her lips as she listens to him ramble. "I can't believe I did that," he whispers, coming to a stop in front of his closet. He pulls open the door and stares at himself in the long mirror that's hung up on the inside of it, his face twisting up in disgust at the pathetic creature he sees staring back at him. "I could've killed him..."

"I did warn you," Kate says, getting up to stand behind him.

"And I didn't listen. I should've listened..."

"Yes, you should have," she agrees, patting him on the shoulder. "But it's still not too late to put an end to this, to prevent it from ever happening again."

"But I don't want to die!"

Kate hums understandingly. "I know, I know... Death is a scary concept," she says, her grip tightening. "Trust me, I'm well aware—that's why I'm here, after all—but it's either you or them. If you don't take yourself out of the picture now, the darkness inside you will keep growing bigger and bigger and your friends will go down one by one by your hands. Sure, they'll be sad for a while, but just one bullet can prevent so much bloodshed from ever coming to pass. And isn't it better for them to remember you as you are now, as their friend, than as the monster you'll become if you don't do what needs to be done? C'mon, be brave."

Stiles is silent for a moment, and then fresh tears spill.

"Will it hurt?" he chokes out.

"No. For you, it'll be over in a snap."

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, resolve washing over him.

"OK... I'll do it."


	22. In the Eye of the Storm

Lydia was halfway through watching _The Notebook_ when she got Scott's call. She'd ignored it at first, but then the boy had called again and, with an irritated sigh, she'd been forced to pause the movie and pick up her phone. Her greeting was a brusque, "What?" because she wasn't in the mood to be interrupted, least of all by Scott, but when she received her answer all of her irritation had melted away into shock and fear.

The television was forgotten, frozen on Rachel McAdams' face, as she took the stairs two at a time and raced out the front door, not even pausing when her mother called after her, asking her where she thought she was going so late. Now, she sits behind the wheel of her car, biting into her bottom lip so hard that it bleeds again and again. She doesn't really know where she's heading—even though she considers him a good friend, truthfully she doesn't know that much about Stiles and thus is clueless as to his haunts, the places in which he can usually be found. So she just drives, not paying much attention to speed limits or red lights and instead devoting it all to the people that are still on the streets this late in the evening. She doesn't expect to see Stiles among them but still feels disappointed when she doesn't spot his face or his Jeep.

"Damn it, where _are_ you?" Lydia wonders aloud.

Having driven through the centre of town, she veers off toward the residential streets. A couple of them she ventures down without success, but then she turns onto Stiles' street, supposing that he won't be there but that it can't hurt to check anyway. She finds to her relief and surprise the boy's Jeep parked haphazardly on the curb outside the McCalls', the driver's door wide open and the engine still idling. Pulling her own car to a stop behind the abandoned blue vehicle, Lydia dashes up to the front door of the house and feels her heart rate pick up tremendous speed when she hears Stiles' voice from inside.

Shoving the front door open, Lydia follows it upstairs to his bedroom.

"You're sure it won't hurt?" she hears Stiles ask.

With her hand on the bedroom door she stops, caught by the raw emotion in his voice. Although she'd leapt immediately to action, she almost hadn't wanted to believe it when Scott told her that Stiles had shot Derek because he was suffering from hallucinations. But, as she listens to Stiles have a conversation seemingly with himself, she is forced to accept it as true.

"OK... I believe you."

Believe who? Lydia ponders.

There's only one way to find out, she decides, pushing the door open with a shove. Stiles stands with his back to her in front of his closet door, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes meet hers in the reflection and widen in alarm, and Lydia is perplexed and a little heartbroken when she sees their redness and the wetness on his cheeks. "Stiles, I know I can't understand what's happening to you right now, what you're going through," she says, stepping slowly inside the room with her palms held up, like she's approaching a cornered animal. "But I want you to come with me, alright? I'm going to take you back to the clinic so that Scott's boss can fix it."

Stiles doesn't say anything in response, but his startled expression becomes sad and he looks away from her. It's then that Lydia sees what he's holding. Inhaling sharply, she schools her face and stands her ground when Stiles turns around, staring down at the gun clutched in his left hand. "Stiles... What're doing with that?" Lydia asks.

"I have to do it," the boy says.

"Do what?"

"She says I have to do it."

"Stiles, do _what_? You're really starting to scare me."

"I have to end it," Stiles answers with a wet smile. "S'the only way."

Lydia swallows tightly and dares to take a step closer. "Stiles... I want you to put the gun down, OK? Please? For me?" she entreaties.

What happens next happens so fast that Lydia doesn't have time to think. When Stiles ignores her and raises the gun, holding the barrel to his temple, she lunges for him and tackles him to the ground. The pistol slips out of his grasp before he can fire, bounces heavily across the floor and comes to a stop a few feet away from them. Stiles struggles to get out from under Lydia, his arms straining toward the firearm. "No!" he screams hoarsely, scratching frantically at whichever parts of her he can reach. "You don't understand! I have to do it! I _have_ to!"

"Stiles!" Lydia yells over him. "Calm down!"

The struggling boy doesn't seem to hear her. He still reaches desperately for the gun, his arm stretching across the carpet until Lydia roughly takes hold of his wrist and restrains him, yanking it down to his side. This only serves to make Stiles even more frenzied—he bucks his hips up to try to displace her and, now that his hands are out of commission, sinks his teeth into the flesh of her shoulder, hard enough to pierce her skin.

Lydia cries out in shock, having not expected Stiles to resort to such tactics. "Alright," she grunts, the shock passing quickly. "Fuck this." Careful not to use too much of her strength, she quickly releases Stiles' hands and, before he can make use of the freed extremities, flips him around and wraps her arm around his neck in a choke hold. Stiles scrabbles to get loose, clawing ineffectually at her and trying to pull away, but his weaker human muscles are no match for a werewolf's, even a new one like Lydia, and he only succeeds in choking himself further. With her eyes clenched shut, Lydia increases the pressure and waits it out as Stiles' struggles gradually weaken. After a few seconds they stop altogether as Stiles passes out from lack of oxygen, and she takes a shuddering breath. She loosens her arm and presses her lips to the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles... We'll get you well again, I promise."

* * *

When Lydia enters the clinic with Stiles over her shoulders in a fireman's carry, her red purse swinging at her hip, Derek, having recovered enough from being shot up with wolfsbane, rushes over to assist her. He takes the boy from her and, following Deaton's instructions, lays him down on the examination table, where he makes for a truly pitiful sight—Stiles is even paler than usual, the moles dotting his face standing out in starker contrast, and there are deep bags beneath his eyes and dried tear tracks down his cheeks. Derek is unable to tear his eyes away from his young lover, because he's honestly scared that if he does for even half a second, Stiles will vanish in a puff of smoke, never to be seen or heard from again. He should've tried harder, shouldn't have given Stiles space—the first time Stiles had Melissa send him away, he should've disregarded her, stormed right up to Stiles' bedroom and hashed out their troubles then and there. Instead he let whatever was ailing Stiles get worse.

Deaton and Chris flit about the room, double-checking that they did every step correctly for the counter-potion, but Derek is oblivious to everything but the fragile-looking teenager in front of him and the girl who stands next to him. Lydia puts a dainty hand on his arm, no doubt intending to provide him with some comfort, but he knows he won't feel better until Stiles wakes up and is cured of his ailment, putting this whole mess behind them.

"What happened to him?" he asks quietly.

"He tried to kill himself," Lydia replies bluntly, causing all three men to look at her in disbelief. "I think I got there just in time."

"Good God..." Deaton breathes.

Derek returns his shattered gaze to Stiles' face. "How?"

Lydia pulls the gun from her purse. "With this."

Chris inhales sharply, his ice-blue eyes guilty. "I should never have given that to him..."

A few moments of uneasy silence pass, and then Deaton shakes himself from his stupor and carefully finishes his double-checking. "Alright, I think this is as ready as I'll be able to get it," he says, taking a small glass beaker from atop a Bunsen burner and walking it over to the examination table. Inside is a thick liquid of an ugly moss-green colour that stinks to high heaven, making both werewolves cover their noses in disgust. "We can either wait for him to wake up on his own and give this to him then, or we can try to administer it now, while he's unconscious and can't put up a fight. The choice is yours, Derek."

"Do it now," the alpha decides, without having to think about it.

"Very well. Pick his head up so that he doesn't choke."

Derek does as he's told. Once he's in position, Stiles' head cradled carefully in his hands with Chris and Lydia holding down Stiles' torso and arms, Deaton opens the unresponsive boy's mouth and brings the rim of the beaker to his lips. Derek wants to throw up at the thought of swallowing the foul concoction and has to avert his eyes when Stiles' body automatically does just that. So as to not overwhelm him, Deaton stops every few seconds to give Stiles' throat a chance to work and then carries on, until the last of the mixture has been consumed.

"Is that it?" Lydia asks.

"That's it," Deaton confirms, stepping away from the table and placing the beaker on the counter. "Now all we can do is wait and hope that it did the job."

"How long will that take, d'you think?"

"I'd say that depends on how hard you knocked him out, Miss Martin."

"I had to!"

"I know. I'm not accusing you of anything. I was merely answering your query."

"Both of you shut up!" Derek barks, not in the mood to listen to their bickering. "You're not helping." He ignores the glare Lydia sends his way, as well as Deaton's rather loud harrumph, in favour of dragging his stool over to the examination table, wanting to be closer to Stiles. He's not normally one for public displays of affection—they nearly always make him feel too uncomfortable to be tolerated—but, because this is a special circumstance, he takes Stiles' hand in one of his own and holds it against his lips. The room stays silent for an unbearable amount of time, every one of them watching and waiting for some sign of life from Stiles. Deaton and Chris clean up the mess they'd made making the counter-potion, while Lydia wanders around the outskirts of the room and examines the different arcane ingredients Deaton has stored in the cupboards. But Derek stays exactly where he is.

Twenty minutes pass, and then Stiles' nose twitches and he groans quietly.

Derek is alert in an instant, cupping Stiles' cheek with his free hand and stroking across his cheekbone to coax him back to wakefulness. It doesn't take long, and then Stiles' eyes crack open and look blearily around the room before finding Derek's. They widen as realisation hits, followed by panic, and then the boy sits up, wrenches his hand from Derek's and tries to throw himself over to the other side of the table.

Derek doesn't let him.

"Stiles, it's OK," he says softly, his hand pressed against the middle of Stiles' chest.

"What's going on? How did I get here?" Stiles asks in a rush.

"I brought you," Lydia answers.

Stiles stares at her for a few seconds before the memories return and his eyes snap back to Derek, his face becoming tormented. "Oh my God," he gasps, "I shot you..." He extends his hand toward the alpha's shoulder but freezes with it hanging in the air between them, like he's unsure whether or not his touch will be welcomed. "Please tell me you're alright."

Derek's mouth twitches. "You tell me."

He moves his stool even closer with an unpleasant screech until their skin connects and Stiles' slender fingers stroke across the freshly healed skin of his shoulder. "See? All healed, without even a scar," he says, his voice fond. He can see the anguish in Stiles' tired face, years of seeing it in his own reflection making it easy to discern, and he sighs as he takes Stiles' hand again and holds it over his heart. "I don't blame you for shooting me, Stiles—no one here does. It wasn't your fault, but the fault of whoever poisoned you with that hallucinogenic potion. Which brings me to what we need to talk about next." He shares a quick look with Deaton and Chris. "We need you to tell us what or who it was you saw. It might give us an idea of who was behind this, and then we can make sure they never do anything like it again."

Stiles frowns in confusion and looks around the room, his breathing not quite even. "Where is she?" he asks.

"Where is who? Who did you see?"

"Kate," Stiles answers diffidently. "She's not here."

Derek tenses up at the mere mention of the blonde's name. "Kate? That was who you kept seeing?" he presses, needing to be sure that he heard Stiles correctly. When the boy nods, he looks to Chris and finds him now bent over the book in which Deaton had found the counter-potion, his lips a thin line. With the hunter distracted, he allows himself to be free with his words. "You won't see that bitch ever again, Stiles, I promise you. We gave you the cure while you were unconscious."

"It that why my mouth tastes like ass?" Stiles asks, making a face.

"Yes, it is," Deaton answers. "My apologies, but these things are usually very unpleasant, so there was nothing I could really do about the taste if I wanted it to still be effective. Here, this'll help." He produces a bottle of Gatorade and gives it to Stiles, who takes it and drinks greedily. "I know you're probably exhausted after what you've just experienced, and I'd like nothing more than to let Derek take you home so you can get some much-needed sleep. But I'm afraid we still have some matters to discuss before that can happen." He waits for Stiles to finish the bottle and look up at him again, his somnolent body listing slightly to the side, before carrying on. "Now, you've already told us it was the late Kate Argent you were seeing, and that will likely help some, but not enough to determine her origins. I also need to know _what_ she did, and how, that drove you to attempt suicide."

Derek growls at the vet. "Can't this wait? He's about to keel over!"

"It can't, Derek," Deaton explains patiently. "You _know_ it can't. Whoever did this to Stiles might already know that their first attempt has been thwarted, and we can't afford to waste any more time. The longer we wait, the more time we give the culprit to act again. So please, let's just get this over and done with, and then Stiles can rest."

Derek huffs. "Fine."

The vet smiles indulgently. "Start from the beginning, if you would, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles takes a deep breath.

He talks about the first time he saw Kate, exactly a week ago on his way to Alisha's Boutique. "She didn't talk to me at all then," he says, keeping his eyes glued to the centre of Derek's chest. "She just...stood there smiling at me, and then she vanished. I was freaked out by it but tried to ignore it, hoping that it was just my imagination or something. Then when I got home a few hours later she showed up again in the kitchen and said that she'd make me pay. She still had the knife in her eye..." He trails off, shuddering at the memory of how he'd sunk the deadly implement in there in the first place, how it slid in as smoothly as in butter.

"Why didn't you come to me right away?" Derek can't help but ask.

"I couldn't..."

"I would've believed you."

"No, Derek, I mean I actually couldn't," Stiles insists. "I wanted to. You have no idea how much I wanted to tell you, or anyone. In fact, when Scott and Allison found me on the kitchen floor I was going to tell them, but it was like... Kate was in my head, y'know? She wouldn't let me. Every time I tried to tell someone, to get help—and I tried a lot—there was this force that held the words back. I couldn't do anything to fight it, and it made it easier for Kate to worm her way in and make me believe the shit she kept telling me..."

"Like what?" Lydia chimes in curiously.

"Just lies," he deflects.

"I need to push you for more than that," Deaton says gently.

Stiles shifts in place, the bitter scent of anxiety coming off of him in waves, so Derek squeezes his hand in an effort to reassure him that he doesn't have to hide anything from him, that he'll be OK with anything he has to say. It seems to work, Stiles opening his mouth again and telling Deaton what he needs to hear:

"She played on my fears and insecurities, mostly," he mumbles, frustration appearing in his voice. "Just stupid stuff, like me not being good enough and that everyone would get sick of me and ditch me, that kind of thing. Like I said, it was stupid stuff. I knew none of it was true, but Kate was pretty damn good at exploiting everything she could to try and convince me that it was. When the bulk of it started that day in the loft, she said..."

He trails off and bites his bottom lip, his eyes flicking to Derek's.

The wolf urges him on. "She said what?"

"Do I really have to say?" Stiles stalls, his frustration creeping into his eyes now. "I don't think this part's relevant."

"Yes," Deaton responds succinctly.

"Fine! You really wanna know? She talked about when she and Derek were together and how a stupid sixteen-year-old virgin _loser_ like me would never be able to live up to her when they were fucking!" Stiles snaps at the vet. His sleep-deprived state has brought his temper to the surface, and his face flushes red from both anger and embarrassment as Lydia stares at him sympathetically and Chris tears himself away from Deaton's book to look at him in surprise.

Stiles looks down at the floor. "There. Was that _useful_?"

"Stiles..." Derek breathes.

"Don't. Just...don't."

Lydia speaks up then, mercifully moving the conversation forward. "How did Kate convince you to try and kill yourself?" she asks, her voice kind.

"She warned me repeatedly that I'd hurt you guys," Stiles explains, calming down again. "I'd already killed once, so it was apparently only a matter of time until the darkness she said she saw in me came out properly. That's what made me freak out at the loft. And then, when I accidentally shot Derek...it was like her warnings were coming true, and I was desperate for a way to stop it before I actually succeeded in killing one of you guys. That's how she did it. But I _never_ would've tried to do something like that if things were normal, wouldn't have even _thought_ about it. I don't want to die, and I couldn't have done that to you guys even if I did."

"Is that everything she said?" Deaton enquires stoically.

"I think so. That's all I remember, anyway. Some of it's kinda fuzzy."

"Alright, you can get some rest now. Derek?"

Said alpha is on his feet immediately, guiding Stiles to hop down from the examination table with a strong arm around his waist. After thanking Lydia, Derek leads Stiles outside and over to his Jeep, where he takes the keys and orders him to get in the passenger seat. "You're in no state to drive," he points out when Stiles protests the mollycoddling, an affectionate smile forming on his thin lips when the boy pouts and petulantly buckles himself up. Derek walks around to the driver's side and gets in behind the wheel, letting silence descend upon them as he drives Stiles back to the McCalls' house. His mind is racing with all the information it's trying to digest, his heart breaking all over again when, at a red light, he glances to his right and sees Stiles staring forlornly out of the passenger window.

* * *

Derek sits on the end of Stiles' bed while Stiles is in the bathroom, hopefully getting ready for his first full night of sleep in a week. He knows he should probably leave—his car is still parked by the side of the road on the edge of town, he has no clean clothes to change into, and while his jeans will probably be fine the next day, his Henley is definitely beyond repair. Even with all of this, he stays right where he is and plans on doing so until he is actually told to go.

When Stiles reenters the room in his pyjamas, looking dead on his feet, he switches off the light, makes a wide berth around Derek, and climbs without a word beneath the sheets. Derek sighs and racks his brain for a solution to ease the tension. He guesses that Stiles feels so unsure around him now because of all he'd spilled at the clinic, and that just won't do. Getting up, he strips off his ruined shirt and steps out of his jeans, leaving just his boxer-briefs on as he walks around to the other side of the bed and gets in next to Stiles. His bedmate lies facing away from him, his body rigid, so Derek shuffles closer, wraps an arm around Stiles' waist and tucks his chin over Stiles' shoulder. "You OK?" he asks.

There's a brief pause, and then Stiles shakes his head.

Derek isn't surprised. It was a silly question to ask, really. "Speak to me."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say anything."

"...Are you mad at me?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad at you?"

Stiles turns around in Derek's arms and burrows further into Derek's warmth, rubbing his cheek against the middle of his hairy chest. "For bringing up you and Kate back at the clinic... I know she's a sore spot for you, but the way she talked about the two of you got under my skin and...honestly? I'm still kinda scared that she was right."

It takes Derek a few moments to understand what Stiles means, and when he does his wolf growls in his head and attempts to break out, to prove to the boy just how wrong he is. Instead he pushes the wolf back and settles for tightening his arms around Stiles, sticking resolutely to his words from weeks ago about going at Stiles' pace. "You have nothing worry about, love..." he reassures. The pet name slips out easily, and he can feel the tips of his ears turn pink when he realises it, but he just presses a kiss to the top of Stiles' head and moves on. "We may not have made it that far just yet, but I already know that when we do finally have sex, it's going to be perfect."

"I hope so," Stiles whispers, beginning to drift off.

"Sleep, love. You're safe."

"Stay?"

"I won't leave, I promise," Derek smiles. "I'll hold you all night."


	23. It Always Pays to Have a Plan B

Shortly after Derek takes Stiles home, Chris makes his own egress from the clinic, leaving Deaton to suffer at the hands of a very inquisitive Lydia. He would've stayed for a bit longer, too, to put their capable heads together and figure out who was responsible for Stiles' poisoning, had it not been for what he'd read in Deaton's book. The list of ingredients that went into the potion that had afflicted Stiles was long and confusing, but with enough patience he'd worked through them all and discovered that several of them stood out to him as suspicious.

Now, he drives just under the speed limit to his house, hoping that the conclusion he'd been lead to by the list and the fact that Stiles had seen his sister will prove false. He finds his dad's car parked in the driveway, and as he exits his own and approaches the front door he prepares himself for what will be, at best, a very awkward conversation.

And at worst...

Shaking his head, Chris opens the door and steps into the warmth of his foyer. "Dad?" he calls out, hanging up his coat on the row of hooks on the wall to his left. He hears a reply come from the kitchen and, making that his next destination, finds his father leaning against the counter, sipping slowly from a steaming cup of decaf coffee. The white-haired hunter nods at him and goes back to his beverage, so Chris bides his time, pouring himself his own cup and moving to stand opposite his dad, his back to the island. The ensuing silence is uncomfortable, to say the least, and in it Chris manages only a couple of sips of coffee before having enough.

"I need to ask you something," he says slowly.

Gerard hums but doesn't look up.

"This is difficult, but I need to know," Chris continues, putting down his drink. "Did you have anything to do with what's been happening to Stiles this past week?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Answer the question."

Gerard huffs impatiently. "Fine. Yes, I did."

His eyebrows shooting up his forehead, Chris takes an instinctive step away from his dad, who stares back at him shamelessly. "You— You're actually admitting it?" he splutters. "How? How the hell could you do something like that?!"

"He deserved it," Gerard defends succinctly, as if that explains everything.

"Why?"

"Because he killed your sister," the older man replies. He slams his coffee down on the countertop so hard that some of it splashes out, but he doesn't seem to care. When he returns his eyes to his son's, they sparkle menacingly, reminding Chris of the same look he'd seen in Kate's the few times they'd worked together to take out werewolves she said posed a threat to human society. "That boy deserves everything that's coming to him, as do the rest of his friends..." Gerard continues vituperatively. "Mangy mutts, the lot of them, and this town will be better off without them polluting it."

"God, do you hear yourself?!" Chris exclaims. "What's _wrong_ with you?!"

"Werewolves are monsters, son. Every one of them."

"What about Allison? Is she a monster, too?"

"No, not yet," Gerard concedes. "But she will be. They all become monsters over time. Best to take them all out before that ever happens."

Chris freezes, eyes wide with fear. "What are you planning?"

The eldest Argent counters with a question of his own, holding a calloused hand to his stubbly chin. "I presume that your little disappearing act a couple of hours ago was to go to young Mr. Stilinski's aid, yes? I noticed you took a box of bullets with you. Did he end up killing anyone before you helped him?" he enquires, his complete lack of emotion greatly unnerving his son. "No? Well, that's unfortunate. I had planned for it to go further than that, for it to result in at least one casualty, but, admittedly, my proficiency for potion-making is a bit lacking. Ah, well... C'est la vie." He claps his hands loudly, making Chris jump. "We thought of a contingency plan just in case our first failed, so I suppose we'll just move on to that."

" _We_?" Chris narrows his eyes. "Who is ‘we'?"

"That would be your father and I," says a voice behind him.

He spins around and sees Victoria leaning arrogantly against the door frame. "You?"

"Yes, me."

"But Allison... You'd kill your own daughter?"

"She's already dead, as far as I'm concerned," the redhead interrupts coldly.

Snapping his mouth closed, Chris' blue eyes harden as his wife enters the room, hips swaying, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, Chris, you know we're right," she reasons, her voice low and almost seductive. "That pack's the reason our child is now a monster. They're the reason your sister is dead, murdered in cold blood. Help us."

"Kate was sick," Chris rebuts, looking down at Victoria with disgust written clear on his face. He doesn't see the woman he married. "She was sick in the head, and she stopped being my sister the moment I discovered the truth about what she did. The Hale pack were innocent back then—for God's sake, there were _children_ in that house when she set the fire! Young children! We live by a Code, or at least we're supposed to. Or have you forgotten that? The current Hale pack are also innocent of any wrongdoing. The lives they've taken were to save others and in self-defence, and as far as I'm concerned that doesn't break any rule."

"Even if one of those lives was that of your own sister?" Gerard demands angrily.

"Yes. She made her bed."

Gerard's sigh is lengthy. "I'm extremely disappointed in you, Chris," he says sadly. "You've never possessed Kate's staunchness."

"I'm not your myrmidon like she was. I won't let you hurt them."

"And just how do you plan to stop us?" Victoria queries.

Gerard pulls a gun from the back of his jeans. "Don't worry, son," he assures darkly, stepping toward the younger man, the butt of the gun raised. "It'll all be over before you know it, and then you can reevaluate just where your loyalties lie."

* * *

_\- Monday, March 7th, 2011 -_

Stiles wanders through the school halls and stifles a series of yawns. His last class has just ended, and he wants nothing more than to return home and sleep for at least the next three months. Last night was restful, Derek's arms around him keeping at bay the nightmares he's sure would have assaulted him otherwise, but one good night wasn't enough to make up for a whole week of bad ones. He was almost tempted that morning to beg Melissa to let him stay home again, but she'd already done that once recently. One of her conditions for his continued involvement with Derek, his hunter training and the supernatural world in general was that he not let his grades slip, and she hadn't been very impressed when she discovered that Derek had stayed the night without permission, so he hadn't wanted to push his luck.

After dropping Derek off by his Camaro, Stiles had arrived at school bright and early with a cup of strong hot coffee in his hand. Lydia was the only one waiting for him outside, and after a brief moment of awkwardness on both sides they'd walked to his locker, then headed to their first classes. Now, they journey back outside, discussing plans.

"You don't have detention today, right?" Stiles asks.

"No, Friday was my last day," Lydia replies, linking her arm through his.

"I still can't believe you punched Jackson."

"Well, he deserved it. Plus, I've gotta stick up for my best friend."

Stiles brings them to a halt and turns to her, his eyes wide. "Wait, _I'm_ your best friend?"

"Of course," Lydia responds, looking at him like he's slow.

"Wow..."

She rolls her eyes and gets them moving again. "I don't know why that's so surprising," she says. "I've got Allison, sure, but she's too wrapped up in Scott to count."

"I guess," Stiles acknowledges, allowing Lydia to steer him toward her fancy car. He straps himself into the passenger seat and throws his backpack in the back, where it lands beside Lydia's Chanel handbag. "It's just... It's still weird to me that we're friends. Me, resident spaz, is best friends with Lydia Martin, Queen Bee of Beacon Hills High? A couple of months ago this would've just been a pipe dream, and now you're beating up my naysayers. S'one hell of a head trip when you really think about it. By the way, where are we going?"

Lydia answers as she starts the engine. "To the library," she says, navigating the car through the throng of other vehicles that are also leaving the premises. "You're going to help me with something I started working on last week—a bestiary, which Allison copied from her grandfather for me. It's in archaic latin, though, which I can read but it's still been slow going. I thought it would go faster with two people."

"Good idea. One problem, though: I can't read archaic latin."

"You'll learn."

"Won't trying to teach me just slow you down more?"

Lydia takes a moment to answer, her painted lips pursed as they idle at a red light. "Perhaps, but maybe I just want to have you around for a while longer," she admits, once the light has turned green. She glances to her right and looks at Stiles with so much worry that Stiles bites back the witty retort that was on the tip of his tongue. "I'm not saying this to hurt you," the redhead continues, "because I know it wasn't your fault, but last night scared me, Stiles. It _really_ scared me, even more than when Peter attacked me on the lacrosse field. As I've already said, you're my best friend, so please try to understand me when I say that I'm having trouble with the thought of letting you out of my sight ever again. I only allowed it last night because I was sure that Derek also wouldn't be letting you out of his sight for a while."

"Oh... I guess I can't really complain, then," Stiles says, letting Lydia have her way.

"No, you can't," she says, giving him a shaky smile.

Both of them are subdued for the next couple of minutes, until they're close to Beacon Hills' public library and Lydia suddenly stamps on the breaks. Stiles, having not been paying attention to the road, jerks forward without time to prepare himself, his seatbelt digging painfully into his shoulder. "Ow! What the hell?" he groans, rolling his neck.

Lydia doesn't answer him.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, opens her door and leaps out, leaving Stiles sitting there confused. He watches as she dashes around to the front of the car, where he finally sees the cause for their unexpected stop. A man lies facedown in the middle of the otherwise deserted road, presumably unconscious, and he and Lydia would have run him over had it not been for her fast reflexes. Stiles follows suit, getting out of the car and dropping to his knees beside her and the strange man. Something about his white hair seems familiar.

"Is he breathing?" he asks Lydia.

"Yes." The girl gently rolls him onto his back.

"Mr. Argent?" Stiles gapes, looking down at Gerard's slack face. "How the hell did he end up here?"

"I don't know, but call 911, would you? Just to be safe. I'll stay with him."

Running back to Lydia's car, Stiles wrenches open the back door and grabs his backpack. His phone is where he'd left it in the front pocket, and after unlocking it he quickly dials the number for emergency services and waits impatiently for his call to go through. He hears three rings before he feels a sharp prick in his neck and coldness spreading throughout his entire body. His phone slips from his hand as weariness quickly overwhelms him, causing him to stumble and land with a dull thud on the rough ground, right next to his smashed phone. Blinking blearily, Stiles looks up and sees Victoria standing above him, a sneer on her face and a syringe in her hand, empty now that whatever soporific it had contained courses through his veins.

"Lydia..." he croaks, turning his head toward the girl and finding to his despair that she is in a similar state. He can just make her out as she twitches in Gerard's hold, the old hunter pushing down on the plunger of the syringe he holds to her neck. His last sight before darkness overtakes him is Lydia's eyes fluttering closed.

* * *

Chris sits on the warehouse floor and silently fumes. Long, thick chains bind his hands to the wall against his back, where he'd awoken an indeterminate amount of time ago with a sizeable bump on his temple and a mean headache rattling his brain. He'd quickly assessed the situation, looking for anything with which he could free himself, and found to his trepidation that things looked quite different from the last time he was there to set up Stiles' escapism test. The boxes that had sat around the edges of the room were gone and, auguries of horrors still to come, several more sets of restraints hung from the ceiling, each of them corresponding to a small generator atop a long table in the middle of the dimly lit room.

He was familiar enough with werewolf containment techniques to figure out what all of this meant. Sure enough, soon after he'd first awoken—sometime in the early morning, he'd deduced from the sunlight streaming in through the dirt-encrusted windows—he heard a series of thumps and frustrated grumblings from outside, before Gerard and Victoria came through the door with a couple of unconscious betas:

Scott and Allison.

He wasn't above begging his relatives to stop what they were doing, but his protestations fell on deaf ears. Scott and Allison were subsequently restrained and hooked up to a generator each, which would prevent them from tapping into their wolves and thus preclude any escape attempts. Both teenagers were unconscious during the whole process and remain so now, hours and hours later.

Whatever drug Gerard and Victoria gave them must have been potent.

How Chris had remained ignorant for so long to his father's corrupt worldview, the same view that was passed on to his sister, he couldn't and still struggles to fathom. But, now that it's finally out in the open, he can see the signs he'd missed over the years.

The timing of the Hale fire is the most glaring offence, a tragedy that he'd written off as simple coincidence when it occurred. Truthfully, Chris had just wanted his parochial beliefs to remain untested, too afraid to pull back the curtain and accept that those he'd long thought of as the good guys were not always so good and those he was taught were bad were not always bad. Other offences are smaller, a conglomeration of brutal killings that were carried out with more ardour than was strictly necessary.

Chris had dared to openly question his father's methods just once.

It was almost fifteen years ago, when, after his pack was wiped out, an omega boy had terrorised the denizens of Lake Placid, New York. He maimed a couple of twenty-somethings who were walking home from the movies one evening, the scent of the leftover snacks they carried drawing him to them. The itinerant Argents were close by at the time and were tasked with the cleanup. The omega was a young thing, barely in his teens, who ululated for his deceased parents once he was hanging defenceless in a rope trap and the grave reality of his situation had finally set in. Chris had watched on with barely concealed revulsion as his father used a broadsword to bisect the pubescent omega across the waist.

When he'd pointed out the inhumanity of this act while Gerard was cleaning his weighty blade of blood, Gerard's response was venomous.

"They're werewolves, Chris, not humans," the eldest Argent had said, preemptively putting an end to any further comments his son may have been preparing. "They don't deserve humane. As my scion, you would do well to remember that."

He did. Ever since that night he had worked quietly alongside his father because, at least according to the Code that all hunters were supposed to follow, all the werewolves they took care of had earned their deaths. Chris would have of course preferred it if those deaths were less violent, but there wasn't a legitimate complaint he could offer. However, now that he knows that Gerard has gone after humans and innocent werewolves in the past and is doing so again with pleasure, abrogating the Code, he sincerely regrets keeping his silence.

More footsteps from outside catch Chris' attention.

It's the first thing he has heard in a while that isn't the low hum of the generators still attached to Scott and Allison's bare stomachs, and it comes accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground—a body, Chris' mind supplies. Dread fills his chest and makes his heart beat faster as the footsteps get closer, until the warehouse door bangs open and they come lumbering through it.

"Got a few more to keep you company," Gerard pants.

Over his shoulder the white-haired man carries an unconscious Lydia, who he lays down on the ground without care. Chris winces in sympathy when her head smacks hard against the concrete. This happens a couple more times, his father huffing and puffing with the exertion of it all as he carries in a tall boy with light-brown curls whom Chris doesn't know and—to Chris' renewed fury—Stiles. While Lydia is strung up next to Allison and attached to her own generator, both boys get the same treatment he'd received the previous evening, chained up against the wall on either side of him. Isaac stays propped up but Stiles quickly slumps over sideways, his head coming to rest against Chris' right hip.

"Not too many more now," Gerard grins, wiping his brow.

"What are you going to do with them?" Chris glares.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that."

"That's not an answer."

"No, I don't suppose it is." Gerard laughs as he walks away. "Sit tight."

After the door is slammed shut, Chris turns his attention to the newest addition to his prison and gently and methodically checks him over for any clues or useful items he might possess. To his disappointment he discovers that Stiles' pockets were either already empty at the time of his capture—unlikely—or they were emptied after the fact by Gerard and Victoria—extremely likely. The only thing of note that Chris discovers is the tiny circle of red on the right side of Stiles' neck, the mark presumably left over from when he was drugged.

With nothing else to do, Chris shifts a little bit closer and repositions them until his protégé is propped up against his side, head on his shoulder.

"And now we wait..."

* * *

Awareness returns to Stiles slowly, his mind lethargic as he battles the lure of the darkness trying to keep him under. His body aches, particularly his stiff neck and half-numb ass, and groans quietly as he tries to open eyes that feel like they've been taped shut. Once he finds success, for the first few seconds he peers through slits, his eyebrows meeting in confusion because everything around him is too blurred to be recognisable. The last memory Stiles has is of he and Lydia leaving school, which doesn't really give him any clues, so he opens his eyes wider and blinks several times to clear his vision. When things swim into focus, he realises just what the three strange vertical shapes a few feet away from him are.

"Oh my God..." he breathes.

"Stiles? Are you alright?" comes a concerned voice.

Looking to his left, Stiles' perturbation is exacerbated when he sees Chris sitting right next to him. The shackles around the hunter's wrists clue him in to his own imprisonment, and he has a few moments of panic in which he tries to extricate himself before Chris' hands cover his in an attempt to calm him down.

"What's going on?" Stiles enquires timorously.

"My dad and Victoria have captured us," Chris replies shamefully.

Images of Gerard lying in the road play before Stiles' eyes. "But... _why_?!"

"For Kate."

Stiles listens as Chris explains all he had learned the night before and, by the end, is vexed. "But...won't people notice us going missing and come looking for us?" he points out, the desperation he feels bringing out his loquacious nature in full force. "I mean, we have families! When Scott or Lydia don't come home, their parents aren't just going to brush it off. The cops'll get involved because of Parrish and Isaac and they'll start sniffing around because they know we're all friends. And then there's Derek. He'll _definitely_ come looking for me, especially after the whole thing with the hallucinations. Kidnapping us all sounds like a pretty fucking stupid thing to do to me. Why not just put a bullet in our heads if what your insane dad wants is vengeance?"

"Because that would be too merciful for you."

Jumping in surprise, Chris and Stiles whip their heads around to find Gerard and Victoria entering the warehouse. Gerard stares speculatively at Stiles, his head tilted to the side as if he's trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. After a while he uncrosses his arms from over his chest and steps closer.

Stiles shies away when the eldest Argent crouches down in front of him.

"Well, this is unexpected," Gerard says, still staring. "The sedative I gave you should've kept you out for at least another couple of hours. Strange..."

"Screw off," Stiles bites out.

Gerard chuckles, his expression turning dark right before he backhands Stiles hard across the face. "Such insolence," he drawls. "I'm going to enjoy beating it out of you. But, before we get to that, I have some other stuff planned. Now, you were wondering what the purpose of all this was right before Victoria and I arrived, correct? Would you care for me to enlighten you? Yes? Good. We still have a few outliers to gather, but I think we can get started without them." Gerard checks the watch around his wrist and moves to stand in front of Allison's limp form. "Barring any more surprises and if my calculations were correct, this one should be just about ready to wake up. Victoria?"

The short-haired woman waltzes to the generator to which her daughter is attached and turns its dial, the low hum it produces getting louder as the voltage increases. Allison shudders as the electricity courses through her and brings her out of her drug-induced slumber.

"What the—" she gasps.

"How nice of you to join us," Gerard greets.

"Grandpa? What's going on?" Allison cries, struggling torpidly.

"Ask Mr. Stilinski. He's the reason we're here, after all."

"W-what?"

"You see," Gerard explains, turning back to Stiles, "had it not been for you, I would've just killed everyone in your sorry pack and been done with it, like you suggested. But, as I said, that's far too lenient... So, I'm going to torture each and every one of your little friends while you watch, knowing all the while that it's your fault. Kate warned you of that, right? Then, after a few days, when I've eventually killed them all, I'll move on to you."

"Shall we begin?" Victoria asks, snatching back Gerard's attention.

"Yes, I think we shall. Do it."

Victoria cranks the generator dial to the max and watches without remorse as Allison throws her head back and screams.


	24. Never Underestimate Your Enemy

"I think we'll give that one a break for now," Gerard tells Victoria with a wave of his hand, never taking his eyes off of Stiles. He stands vaingloriously with his arms crossed a few feet away from the three hanging betas, the cruel, ever-present smirk on his chapped lips only getting more prominent when Stiles glares up at him briefly.

Victoria obediently turns the dial on Lydia's generator, bringing the electrical current back down to a level that's merely enervating instead of torturous. This has been going on for about an hour now, Stiles guesses, the two sadistic Argents alternating their focus between Lydia, Allison and Scott and forcing Stiles to watch as they twitch and scream under the onslaught of the increased voltage. Lydia pants and whimpers pathetically where she hangs, her eyes scrunched up and blood tricking out of the corner of her mouth from where she'd bitten her tongue a few minutes ago. Gerard walks over to her and pats her almost consolingly on the cheek.

"Buck up, dear," he drawls. "You've still got a long road ahead of you yet."

"F-f-fuck...you..." Lydia stammers.

"Such bad manners," Gerard chuckles. "No matter. I'm afraid I have to step out for a bit, so I'll be leaving you all in Victoria's capable hands."

The white-haired man shuts the door behind him with a loud bang that echoes around the cavernous room. It's enough to finally rouse Isaac, the tall boy's entire body jolting and his eyes snapping open wide to take in his surroundings. His breathing gets faster when he sees the state of Lydia, Allison and Scott, to the point where Stiles—being no stranger to them himself—fears that the other boy is perilously close to suffering a panic attack. Before that can happen, Stiles leans closer and extends his arm past Chris, who obligingly presses his back to the wall to give him space.

"Isaac!" Stiles calls. "Look at me."

"What's going on?" Isaac demands, warily eyeing Stiles' hand. "Where am I?!"

"Shh, you're OK. Everything's gonna be OK, I promise."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Victoria interjects, her red heels clacking on the concrete as she walks closer and comes to a stop a foot from Stiles. In her hands she plays with a long dagger, the silver metal shiny and serrated. "Perhaps you've forgotten, but you're not really in a position to promise anything." She brushes the tip of her dagger across the manacles around Stiles' wrists, causing him to jerk back defensively. "And even if you _were_ free—say, if I were to unchain you right now—do you really think you could take me? You've only been learning how to fight for a few paltry weeks. I've been training almost my entire life. There's a reason that the women in this family are the ones in charge, y'know. Allison would've taken my place eventually but, since that's not an option anymore, I'm still the matriarch. Lucky me."

"Power trip, much?" Stiles snarks.

Victoria smirks. "Funny. I can see why my husband's taken such a shine to you. You had potential. It's just a shame you chose the wrong side."

"What are you all talking about?" Isaac cries dolorously.

Victoria's sigh is long-suffering. "Werewolves, dear. Keep up."

"Werewolves...? You guys are crazy!"

"I know one of us is," Stiles says quietly, but not quietly enough.

Victoria still hears him. With a laugh she walks back over to the table with the generators and picks up a small keyring, from which she plucks a single silver key. "I think you need to be taught a lesson, Mr. Stilinski," she says, slipping off her high heels and padding back over to him on bare feet. In his lap she drops the key. "I've a proposition for you, one I don't feel bad giving you because I'm, and I quote, ‘power tripping'. We'll put a moratorium on torturing your wolves, you unlock your restraints, and you can show me what Chris has taught you. You beat me, and you can release everyone else and you can all go off scot-free. Sound reasonable?"

Stiles stares suspiciously at her smug face for a few seconds, weighing his odds. He knows it's unlikely that he'll defeat Victoria—in fact, he'd even go so far as to say nigh impossible—but, after glancing behind her at the etiolated Lydia and Allison, he still has to try. Determined, Stiles picks up the key and unlocks one of the manacles around his wrists.

"Stiles, don't," Chris entreaties. "You can't win."

"Probably not," Stiles agrees.

Victoria shakes her head disparagingly. "Don't worry, Chris. I won't kill him. Yet."

"Don't do this, Victoria," the icy-eyed hunter warns.

"Or else?"

"Or else I'll kill you myself."

The woman seems for a moment taken aback, but then she collects herself and regards her husband with a frosty gaze of her own. "You would really turn on your own wife like that, after all I've done for you, all I've given to this marriage?" she asks, crouching down to eye level and resting her dagger across her knees.

"You have the audacity to accuse me of turning on family?" Chris utters disbelievingly. He leans forward until their faces are mere inches apart, pearly white teeth bared. Stiles has never seen the man so riled up, not even when Chris cornered him at the hospital on the night of Peter's demise. He doesn't blame the man, though, and listens closely as more scathing words pour from his snarling mouth: "You're not my wife," he rebukes. "The woman I married would have _never_ subjected innocent children, least of all her own daughter, to the atrocities you have tonight. I don't even recognise you. If you honestly thought for even a _second_ that we could ever go back to how things were after tonight, you're delusional."

"That's disappointing..." Victoria admits, looking sadly at her husband. "Your dad tried to tell me that this would happen, but I'd been hoping that you could come around, that you'd see reason if I just gave you enough time and proved to you that we're dealing with nothing but degenerate animals. But I guess that was just a fool's dream, wasn't it?" She sighs deeply before her face smooths out again with startlingly quick acceptance. Her hand tightens around the hilt of the dagger, cluing Stiles in to what's about to happen.

"I'll mourn you," Victoria avows.

"Hey!" Stiles yells, grabbing her wrist.

"What?!"

"We were going to fight, remember? Or are you backing out?"

Victoria shakes her head, clearly amused at Stiles' foolhardy brazenness. "If you insist. Since you seem so eager to die first, I suppose I can oblige," she relents, backing away from Chris. Both males breath sighs of relief. "Just hurry up and unlock yourself before I run out of patience and change my mind."

Stiles complies, sticking the key Victoria had given him into the other manacle and pushing himself up against the wall. The metal falls to the ground with a soft clanging sound. His ass is numb and his legs ache from being sat on the hard floor for so long, but he doesn't really have the time to allow his body to recover because, immediately after he pushes himself away from the wall, Victoria starts circling him with her dagger raised menacingly. "Don't I get a weapon or something?" he chirps nervously, moving in a circle with her in order to keep the same amount of distance between them. "I mean, you just said it yourself that you're not worried about me beating you, so...what've you got to lose by the levelling the playing field a bit?"

"Fine," Victoria accedes, waving disdainfully toward the table. "There should be another knife somewhere in there. You can use that and nothing else."

Hurrying over to the table, beneath it Stiles finds a duffel bag filled to the brim with what look like various torture implements. The thought of what all of it could be used for makes him feel a bit queasy. As promised, near the top of the pile Stiles finds the twin of the dagger Victoria still brandishes and snaps it up before turning to face her once more. His confidence is still abysmally low but, he tells himself, at least the chance of him being stabbed in the heart in a mere few seconds is now less than a hundred percent.

"You finally ready?" Victoria enquires.

"As I'll ever be."

"Good."

Without any further warning, the redhead lunges forward, her dagger poised to strike. Yelping, Stiles leaps to his left, swapping their initial positions, and tries to block out everything else but his opponent. It's tricky, because Chris is still pleading with his wife to reconsider and the sound of sobbing is loud in the capacious warehouse, emanating from where Isaac sits curled up in a lachrymose heap with Chris' arm around his shoulders.

Victoria leaps at Stiles a second time, catching him off-guard again. She doesn't have a tell, at least not one that he can see, so he flails to try to block her attack, metal hitting metal as the blades of their weapons clash. His grip loosens around the hilt with the impact, which, as he fumbles to right it, gives Victoria the opening she needs to land her first hit. With a gasp Stiles feels the sharp edge of her dagger cut into the flesh of his bare bicep. Blood pours from the fresh wound, painting his forearm in red as Victoria retreats, straight teeth bared in a wicked grin, and allows him to regroup.

"Give up yet?" she taunts, delectation clear in her countenance.

Stiles takes a breath and shakes off the stinging pain. "Not a chance."

* * *

Derek arrives at the McCalls' that evening to find it completely empty. While this ordinarily wouldn't be cause for concern—after all, Stiles could've just gone out for dinner with Melissa and Scott or something—Derek still feels a deep sense of disquiet as he stares up at the house's empty black windows. Throughout the day he had texted Stiles, to reassure himself that Stiles was fine more than anything, and to every single message he'd received a swift reply, even if Stiles was in class. Then, midway through the afternoon the replies had stopped.

So, yes, Derek is concerned.

Looking inside of himself, he clutches onto his pack bonds, a nexus that connects him to every single member of his pack like a spiderweb, and frowns. They're still a relatively new and fractious bunch, meaning that each of his connections to his betas is thin and fragile at best, Scott's even more so. Over time these connections will grow stronger, until eventually they'll be cemented and Derek will almost be able to feel their emotions if he desires, even with the humans. As it is, the most he can determine is that something is very wrong with them. He feels a sort of muted pain that stirs a recent memory within him, a memory of Kate and the room beneath his old house, and that's when he knows for sure that something is very, _very_ wrong.

Walking quickly back to his car, Derek tries to get in touch with the other members of his pack, hoping that at least one of them will be in a position to tell him what's going on and allay some of his concerns. It has the opposite effect, though, his worry only strengthening instead of attenuating when only Erica and Boyd respond to him. They haven't seen Stiles or anyone else in the pack since school ended, they say, so Derek requests that they be on standby should he require their assistance getting to the bottom of whatever is causing his betas pain. Deaton did warn him that whoever had poisoned Stiles may make a second attempt at destroying him, and by extension the pack, and it's with this theory in mind that he drives to the Argents', breaking every speed limit and not giving a single damn.

The living room light is on when Derek arrives, so he hops out of the Camaro, strides up the front path and bangs on the front door. From within he hears muttered curses and muffled footsteps, before the door swings open and Gerard looks at him suspiciously, his wrinkled face half in shadow. "Ah, Mr. Hale. What brings you round here at this time of night?" he questions, his tone impatient.

"I think something's wrong."

Gerard looks him up and down and then steps aside. "Would you care to come in?"

Derek walks through the threshold and doesn't waste any more time. "I think something bad has happened to my betas. Where's Chris?"

"He's...indisposed, I'm afraid. Errands, you know."

"Fine," Derek sighs frustratedly. "You can help me instead."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"You know about what happened to Stiles yesterday, right?"

Gerard nods.

"Good... Well, I think that whoever did that to him is making their next move."

"What makes you think that?"

Derek paces back and forth, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I haven't heard from anyone but Erica and Boyd since the middle of the afternoon," he details, wincing when he feels a bright surge of pain come through his and Stiles' fledgling pack bond. "That's not like them, especially Stiles and Lydia. He always gets back to me within a few minutes and she's never without her phone, and when I went over to check on him I found the house completely empty. I can _feel_ that something is wrong. I need to find them..."

Gerard frowns in concern. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

"Can you help me look for them?" Derek requests, pulling out his phone again. "Maybe bring some weapons with you—I don't know what we're going to be walking into, so better safe than sorry. I'm gonna try and get in touch with Chris, see if he can help as well."

With a nod Gerard leaves the foyer.

On his way past, Derek gets a whiff of something that halts his thumbs as they type. He takes another deep breath through his nose and barely suppresses a growl when his suspicions are confirmed and he picks up a trace of Stiles' scent in the air. It's reasonably fresh, and it came from Gerard. Everything seems to fall into place with this new discovery—how could he have been so blind? Deaton said that whoever poisoned Stiles did it for vengeance, and who better to seek vengeance than a grieving father? It explains why Stiles had hallucinated Kate. His body tensing, Derek erases what he'd typed out so far and replaces it with a warning before hitting Send.

In the next second Gerard is back, a duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder. Derek forces himself to put back on his worried-alpha facade. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he were to reveal that he knows what Gerard is up to, so, as they exit the house and walk to their vehicles, Derek makes a plan to tail the hunter, hoping that he'll be lead right to wherever his pack is being kept.

* * *

"Is that seriously all you've got?" Victoria laughs.

She easily dodges out of the way of one of Stiles' attacks. They've been at it for a couple of minutes now, one of them advancing while the other retreats, and while Stiles has yet to get close to striking her like he wants, Victoria has sliced into him several more times. The skin of his arms is a mess of sticky blood and he has a particularly nasty cut on his left side, whereas Victoria doesn't even have so much as a scratch on her, no matter how hard Stiles tries. "Really, Chris," the woman continues, feinting left, "I thought you'd at least taught him _something_."

Distracted by Victoria's words, Stiles falls for the feint and ends up with another cut along his ribs. He isn't given time to recover, because the redhead is on him in the next second, pushing him down to the ground. His dagger clatters away across the concrete, a long way out of reach. Victoria quickly straddles him and holds her weapon to his throat with a malicious grin. Much like with Lydia, Stiles is unable to buck the murderous Argent off, though it's not because of werewolf strength but blood loss. All he can do is look up at her.

"I told you that you couldn't win against me," Victoria smirks. "You should've listened."

Stiles spits in her face.

Outraged, Victoria presses the dagger down harder until Stiles feels warmth trickle from his neck, sharp metal slicing into vulnerable skin.

"I wouldn't expect you to accept defeat graciously," she sneers.

Stiles just tries not to breathe.

"This whole thing has been about getting revenge for what you did to Kate, as you know," the huntress goes on. For a short while she stares disdainfully down at Stiles' fearful face, before removing the knife from his throat and moving it to hover right above his eyes. "Because of this, I think it's only fitting that I kill you in the same way you killed her."

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut.

"No!" Chris screams.

A few seconds pass, during which Stiles waits for the inevitable end, for the blackness to envelop him whole. He wonders what will be waiting on the other side, whether his mother will be there with her arms open wide for him or if he'll simple cease to exist. Only, the end doesn't come. More seconds tick by, so, curious now instead of grimly accepting, Stiles opens his eyes a crack and sees the dagger is still ready to strike above him, but it doesn't come any closer. Victoria is still in the same position, too, but her arm shakes with exertion and her face is twisted with confusion and alarm, her painted lips open in a perfect O. The air seems to stand still until she releases a sound of distress.

"What— What's going on? What _are_ you?!" she barks, tremors in her voice.

It's then that Stiles registers the buzzing in his head and the strange sensation of warmth in his chest. The unfamiliar feeling should unnerve him but, oddly enough, it just feels right. He doesn't know what he's doing or how he's doing it—he just _is_. He's holding Victoria securely in place with an arcane, unmovable force that springs from the warmth in his chest, a force that he latches on to without thinking about it. He tests its bounds, pushes with it, and feels amazement when it obeys him, the dagger getting further and further away from his face until it flies from Victoria's grasp. The sound of it hitting the warehouse wall is muted, because all of Stiles' attention is focused on forcing Victoria to climb off of him.

She does so with eyes so frightened that Stiles feels a vindictive sense of pleasure, as he drags himself out from beneath her and stumbles to his feet. Sensing instinctively that he won't be able to keep Victoria under his control for much longer, he quickly walks over to the table, switches off all the generators and grabs the keyring that Victoria left there in her hubris.

"What the hell was that?" Chris gapes.

The buzzing in his head intensifying, Stiles makes his way over to where the hunter and Isaac remain chained up against the wall and sinks to his knees in front of them. He doesn't respond to Chris' query because he doesn't have an answer to give. All he knows is it felt right and that not one of them has the luxury of time to dwell on this new emergence—Gerard will be back soon, after all. With that in mind, Stiles attempts to pick out the right keys but finds his hands are shaking too much and his vision is slightly blurred around the edges. When he almost drops the keyring, Chris reaches out and gently takes it from him.

"I've got it," he says. "You just keep doing whatever it is you're doing."

Acquiescing, Stiles returns his focus to Victoria, who remains with her feet glued to the floor. Her whole body seems to be vibrating with anger now, the surprise of whatever Stiles has done to her having worn off. The warmth in Stiles' chest begins pulsing urgently, like it's trying to warn him that it won't be there much longer. He turns to relay this to Chris and is relieved to find that the hunter has one of his shackles off and is already working on the other.

"We don't have long," Stiles says anyway.

"Almost done..." Chris responds.

With a final twist of the key, the second shackle falls from Chris' wrist right as the hold Stiles has on Victoria is about to fail. The hunter leaps up and storms over to his wife, who glowers at him defiantly. He doesn't say a word, just grabs her arm and drags her over to where he was just sitting. "You can stay there until the cops come for you," he growls as he locks her up. "See how you like it."

"Kinky," is all Victoria says in response.

"What now?" Stiles asks once it's done and Chris helps him up from the floor.

"Now we get everyone out of here before—"

Before Chris can finish his sentence there comes the sound of a car door slamming right outside.

* * *

Just as Derek had suspected, Gerard doesn't search for the missing members of the pack. Derek has no real experience being a tail, so it's tough to know just how much space he should leave between their vehicles. It's touch and go the whole way, with Derek almost losing sight of the eldest Argent's Land Rover a couple of times when he errs too much on the side of caution and allows the 4x4 to creep a bit further away. But Derek always manages to spot it again before it's too late.

Gerard heads toward a series of warehouses on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, not too far away from the loft. Derek leaves his car a good distance from them and journeys the rest of the way on foot, aiming for stealth. His instincts, which have only lead him wrong a few crucial times in the past, tell him that the element of surprise may be essential to overcoming whatever Gerard has in store. Stars twinkle in the black sky and the night air makes the hair of the back of Derek's neck stand on end as he follows his ears down the wide alleyway between two of the warehouses. The lack of light conflates with it all to create an eldritch atmosphere.

From within the warehouse against which he is pressed, Derek can pick up the panicked talking of several voices and the acrid stench of blood. He can't tell to whom the blood belongs but knows with certainty that it's fresh. It has him moving faster, his nose scrunched up under its coppery assault. He slinks further along the side of the warehouse until he reaches the mouth of the alleyway, at which point he pauses, takes a breath and peeks his head out.

Gerard's Land Rover is parked a short distance away from what looks like the entrance to the warehouse, cast in a circle of dim yellow light that shines from an old cobweb-covered bulb above the door. The hunter himself searches for something in the back of the vehicle, facing away from Derek's position as he grumbles to himself in a low, gravelly voice. It's the perfect chance to get the jump on him, but Derek chooses instead to sneak past him, sending a prayer to whoever is watching over him that he'll be able to slip through the warehouse's partially open door without it wailing and announcing his presence.

What he finds inside nearly stops his heart.


	25. The Hunter and the Wolf

Derek isn't sure what he expected to see once he finally tracked down his pack, but it wasn't this. In all honesty he'd been praying that he was wrong, that Stiles' scent being so fresh on Gerard's person had an innocent explanation. Apparently that was just wishful thinking. His gapes, horrified, as he takes in the sight before him, of his betas hung up like racks of meat in an abattoir. Of Isaac, an outsider in all of this craziness who has already been through too much for his age, crying quietly where he's slumped against the wall, shackles thick and heavy around his wrists. Of Stiles half hidden behind Chris, his eyes tired and the upper half of his body cut up and slathered in an alarming amount of his own blood. He'd hoped that the copper he could smell from outside didn't come from a member of his pack, and he has trouble drawing air into his lungs following the discovery that, of course, it came from the one most important to him.

Derek's feet carry him forward seemingly of their own accord, until he stands right in front of Stiles with his hands on Stiles' tense shoulders. He looks the boy over more closely and breathes a tiny sigh of relief when he sees that none of Stiles' cuts are quite as bad as he'd feared—in fact, they've all stopped bleeding and are starting to scab over. Still, it's distressing to see him hurt, and he has no qualms about carefully pulling him into his arms.

"What happened?” he demands, turning to Chris.

The hunter looks contrite. "Well...”

He pauses for a second too long. Derek tenses up, preparing to ask him again in an even less pleasant manner, when Stiles answers the question instead, his voice muffled because his face is pressed into the black leather covering Derek's shoulder.

"Victoria got creative with a knife,” Stiles mumbles, stepping back. "S'fine.”

Derek reluctantly releases him and turns red eyes on the woman in question. "You!” he growls, stepping toward her with lethal intent. He doesn't make it more than a couple of steps before Stiles latches onto his wrist, preventing him from ripping out Victoria's throat. Looking back over his shoulder, Derek relents when he sees the expression on Stiles' face, silently pleading with him to avoid any more bloodshed. Aware that Victoria is sneering at him, he shoves his wolf back, his claws retracting, and returns to Stiles' side.

"How'd you find us?” the boy asks, pulling him further away.

"I followed Gerard,” Derek replies.

Stiles' eyes widen. "He's here?”

"Yes, I am.”

Gerard stands in the doorway, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. His eyes travel unnervingly over everyone, lingering on Stiles before landing on Victoria. "I see you didn't do your job properly,” he says, one eyebrow raised in a clear display of disapproval. He powers on when she splutters and tries to defend herself. "It seems I'll have to finish this by myself.”

Grinning, Gerard steps backward and unclenches his hands, releasing from them a silvery-grey powder that Derek instantly recognises. He hadn't noticed them as he'd entered the warehouse because he was so focused on remaining stealthy, but now Derek sees that on both sides of the door, the only way in or out of the building, are two incomplete lines of mountain ash. The visual causes a repressed memory to stir in the back of Derek's mind, something he hasn't allowed himself to think about properly in a long time, but he ignores it. A gasp to his left tells him that Chris has also figured out what the lines mean, lines that are completed with the ash that Gerard drops. He watches as the blue-eyed hunter runs forward to try and stop his father from locking the doors, too, but he doesn't make it in time. The loud metallic clang of the doors slamming shut is quickly followed by an ominous locking sound.

"Hey! You can't just leave me in here!” Victoria screams as Chris bangs on the doors, her pale skin taking on an ashen hue as she claws at her shackles.

"Why?” Stiles asks her. "What's he planning?”

"I'm not telling _you_!”

"Fine. Stay locked up for all I care.”

Derek takes command of the situation and drags Stiles away from the struggling woman. After making sure he's up to it, he tasks the boy with freeing Isaac and the betas from their restraints, while he goes over to where Chris is still banging on the door and shouting for Gerard to let them out. "Chris!” he barks, grabbing his shoulder. "It's not going to budge, so give it a rest. All you're doing is expending energy that will be needed later.”

The hunter looks like he wants to argue, but after hitting the door with his fist a final time he capitulates. "Fine... What do you propose we do instead? I have no idea what my father is planning and I doubt that Victoria will tell us, either, even under duress. Not with the training we've all been through.”

"You're right about that,” Derek hears Victoria mutter between panted breaths.

He's about to suggest that they assist Stiles until they can think of another way out when he smells something that gives him pause. Ignoring the baffled look Chris sends his way, Derek steps closer to the door and sniffs the air a few times, trying to decipher just what it is. It takes him a little while, but when he's finally able to put a name to the strange scent invading his nostrils, he gasps and takes an aborted step backward, bumping right into Chris. Adrenaline spiking and coursing through his veins, he doesn't apologise, just breathes out a quiet, "Oh my God...” that has Chris frowning in confusion and laying a hand on his arm to get his attention.

"Derek?” the hunter calls urgently, spinning him around. "What's going on?”

"Gas...” is Derek's choked response. "I smell gas.”

"Oh my God,” Chris gasps, echoing Derek. "He intends to burn us to death?!”

Derek can hear the older man walking away from him and doling out commands, but everything sounds muffled, like he's standing on the opposite side of a well-insulated window. Someone is calling his name but he can't focus on anything but the memories that finally break free to assault and overwhelm him, clogging up his nose with the phantom smells of smoke and burning flesh. He's sixteen again, staring in disbelief at the conflagration that destroyed everything he had ever known. He recalls the sensation of flames licking his skin as he tried to get into the house to save the members of his family who were still inside. He recalls the bone-chilling horror he'd felt when he discovered that the house was surrounded by mountain ash, making his efforts for naught. He recalls Laura hauling him back from the fire when he kept trying to get in anyway, tears streaming down their cheeks. He recalls that the last time he'd heard his little sister's voice was when she was screaming.

He keeps falling into a bottomless pit of self-aggrandising panic, until pain blossoms across his cheek and brings him back inside the warehouse. Blinking, Derek finds Stiles standing in front of him, shaking one of his shoulders while he cradles his other hand close to his chest. With a faint sense of surprise he surmises that Stiles must have punched him. Under ordinary circumstances this would upset him, but all he can feel is gratitude, his memories of the fire returning to fester in the back of his mind where they belong.

"Derek, c'mon, get ahold of yourself!” Stiles implores desperately.

"I'm— I'm fine,” Derek stammers.

"Good, because we need to find a way out of here, like, _yesterday_.”

Stiles' hand slides down Derek's arm and curls around his wrist. He allows himself to be dragged along and is greeted in the middle of the room by his betas, all of them awake now and standing in a huddle with Chris and Isaac. All of the teenagers look terrified, and Derek can tell that Chris is the same but is doing his best to hide it. Taking in the rest of the scene, he notes that the previously frigid air inside the warehouse has started to heat up and that a faint orange glow can be seen through the high windows, flickering ominously. Already it's harder to breathe, although that may just be the lingering panic of Derek's memories.

"How're we gonna get out of here?” Scott asks from where he and Allison lean against each other for support.

Chris bites his lip. "I don't know...”

Derek looks around again. Flames have started to slither their way beneath the door, climbing like snakes' tongues up the rusty metal, and smoke pours inside through the smashed windows, leading Derek to conclude that, if they don't burn to death, smoke inhalation will be what kills them. They're running out of time. Going through their options, Derek spots the table, but standing on it wouldn't enable even Isaac, the tallest of them all, to reach the windows. And even if it did, there would still be the issue of falling approximately fifteen feet to the hard ground on the other side. The walls, maybe. They're thick, all constructed from large bricks, sturdy things that won't break easily, but, looking down at his hands, Derek suspects that he might just be able to manage it. He doesn't quite have a handle yet on the limits of the strength his alpha status gives him—he hasn't really tested it at all, in fact—but he remembers seeing his mother accomplish extraordinary feats. And, loath as he is to admit it, Peter was the same.

Without a word, Derek leaves the now-bickering group and walks to the back wall, another set of footsteps telling him that Stiles is shadowing him. Slowly he runs his fingers along the wall, searching for any weaknesses he can exploit to make this easier. The corner of his mouth curls up when he finds a couple of bricks that seem loose near the centre.

"What're you doing?” Stiles asks quietly.

"Getting us out of here.”

"How?”

Derek sends the boy a reassuring smile. "Just trust me.”

Stiles frowns but nods. "I'll always trust you.”

After instructing Stiles to give him some space, Derek takes a deep breath, shifts into his beta form, and curls his right hand into a fist. Bracing himself for the pain, he begins punching the bricks as hard as he can. The warehouse is otherwise silent, his quarrelsome pack ceasing their petty arguing in order to observe him as he tries with all of his strength to create a way to save them. Even with the loose bricks it's not easy—the skin of his knuckles is torn off with the first punch, and on another Derek winces when he feels one of his fingers dislocate.

Still, he perseveres.

On and on it goes, the whole warehouse shaking with every punch. When the first few bricks fall, Derek grins triumphantly through the pain and keeps going, until he has created a sizeable hole through which everyone should be able to exit. Dust hovers in the air, as troublesome as the smoke, so Derek holds his uninjured hand over his nose and mouth to prevent any more of the stuff from entering his lungs. He coughs as gentle hands lead him somewhere, away from the rubble that was once a wall but still distanced from the pack, before they carefully take hold of his own bloodied and skinned hand to examine it closely. The bones of his knuckles are clearly visible but he's already healing, the thin skin that normally covers them returning.

Stiles' frown is deep. "You're an idiot...”

"Yeah, well—" Derek tries to respond, only to be interrupted by another coughing fit that makes Stiles' frown more prominent. "Got the job done, didn't I?” he finishes when recovered.

"True. But still. Idiot.”

"It's fine. It'll heal quickly.”

Stiles shakes his head and sighs. "D'you need help setting your fingers?”

"Nah, I got it.”

Giving himself no time to think about it, Derek pops his dislocated fingers back into place with a series of grunts. "There. All better,” he assures, indulging Stiles when the boy double-checks. Once satisfied, Stiles drops his hand and turns his head to look at the hole in the wall, reminding Derek of the perilous situation in which they are still very much entrenched. The hole is dark and menacing-looking, with warm light flickering around its edges where flames try to find their way inside. Luckily, though, what's left of the bricks Derek displaced creates a useable path through the fire. Only one problem remains:

"Gerard would've heard you doing that,” Stiles points out. "He's probably waiting.”

Derek listens. He can't hear anything from outside apart from the signature crackling of fire, but that doesn't mean Stiles isn't right. Gerard could very well be lurking right outside, ready to shoot the first person who leaves the warehouse through its new exit. Derek doesn't want to be that person, and, if he has any say in the matter, Stiles _definitely_ won't be.

"How do we do this?” Lydia asks as she approaches, arms curled around herself.

"Let's send her first,” Stiles suggests.

For a moment, Derek thinks that Stiles means Lydia and is shocked, but then he sees where Stiles' finger is pointing.

"Good idea,” he agrees.

Once Chris has been apprised of and brought on board, he ignores Victoria's vehement protests, frees her from her shackles, and pushes her in the direction of the hole, the dagger she had used against Stiles pointed at her back as a warning to not try anything. Once everyone is as ready as they can be, Derek with his arm curled protectively around Stiles' shoulders and the betas and a shellshocked Isaac sticking close together, Chris takes point. He uses his wife as a human shield as the ragtag group makes their way outside of the warehouse, clean air filling their grateful lungs. No one feels like celebrating their newfound freedom, though. They stay huddled together as they venture tentatively down the wide alleyway, every one of them maintaining a wide berth from the flames as they keep their eyes open for the eldest Argent. When they reach the mouth of the alley, Chris brings them to a halt. Gerard's Land Rover is still there, sitting inoffensively inside the circle of light, but the man himself is nowhere to be found.

"Where is he?” Chris asks under his breath.

"Right here.”

The group jolts collectively in surprise at the unexpected voice. Derek whips his head around in search of its owner and finds him standing on top of the warehouse, a hunting rifle in his hands. He wonders briefly how on earth Gerard got up there, but then his eyes land on several piles of large crates that are stacked up at varying heights against the wall, giving him his answer.

Before the group can disperse, Gerard aims the rifle and fires with a deafening bang. Instinctively, Derek covers Stiles' body with his own, but he needn't have bothered.

This particular bullet wasn't meant for either of them.

No.

Instead, it pierces through Victoria's neck and sends her crumpling to the floor, where she writhes and chokes on her own blood before going still. Almost as if someone has pressed Play on a paused movie, the group splits apart, all of them running in different directions as fast as their weary legs can carry them. Derek, Stiles and Chris are the only ones who don't scarper. The hunter is too stunned by the sight of his wife's dead body to react to anything else; Stiles seems too tired to move—blood loss, Derek suspects—and Derek doesn't want to leave him. The alpha glares up at Gerard, who just laughs cruelly and loads another bullet in the chamber of his rifle, apparently content to participate in some target practice.

"Aren't you going to run, Mr. Hale?” Gerard asks mockingly.

Derek just bares his fangs.

The eldest Argent's smirk widens into a toothy grin as he aims the barrel of the rifle right at the younger man. "You might want to reconsider.”

Preempting the bullet, Derek yanks on Stiles' arm and gets them moving, hoping that Chris will be able to fend for himself because Stiles takes priority. He hears laughter behind them as they dash down the alley, followed by the heavy thuds of shoes hitting wood as Gerard jumps down from his vantage point. Derek doesn't spare time to look back, just keeps moving until they turn the corner and he pushes Stiles ahead of him. "Find someplace to hide. Fast,” he orders, looking at the boy desperately.

"What about you?” Stiles protests.

"I'll be fine, as long as I don't have to worry about your safely, too.”

"But—"

" _Go_!”

Though he obviously doesn't want to, Stiles acquiesces and scurries off, leaving Derek by himself. He doesn't know where any of his betas are, but the sounds of another bullet being fired and a scream of agony clues him in to the whereabouts of at least one of them. After checking that Stiles has indeed run, he backtracks as swiftly as he can.

* * *

Stiles doesn't make it far before coming to a decision:

He's tired, sure—he'd even go so far as to say exhausted—but he didn't run away when Peter threatened him; he didn't run away when Kate threatened him and Derek; and he sure as hell isn't going to run away now. Mind made up, Stiles spins on his heel and slinks back toward the warehouses, sticking to the shadows. His whole body aches, the beating he took from Victoria taking its toll, but he breathes through it and keeps going—he'd never forgive himself if someone he cares about got hurt and he could've prevented it. In the distance he can hear more gunfire and laughter as Gerard delights in tormenting his friends. It incenses him.

Returning to the alley, Stiles' eyes rest on Victoria's body for a few seconds before another shot being fired snaps him back to attention. He wishes he had something he could use to defend himself when he finds Gerard. Whatever force had helped him subdue Victoria seems to lie dormant now, no matter how hard he tries to reawaken it, so even a knife would be a welcome addition to his nonexistent arsenal. On his way down the alleyway he passes by the hole Derek made in the wall and stops, a thought hitting him. In the large bag from which he'd plucked the dagger he used in his fight with Victoria, there were other weapons. A lot of them. He's just debating whether the risk of trying to retrieve them is worth it when another scream pierces the air, making the decision for him.

Carefully, Stiles steps over the rubble and enters the warehouse through the hole, holding the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth to keep his lungs as clear as he can. Smoke obscures his vision, meaning he has to feel his way around by memory. He trips over a couple of pieces of brick and almost stumbles, but then he finds the table and searches blindly for the bag he remembers leaving on the floor beneath it. Grabbing it, Stiles retreats and breathes deep when he gets back outside. Dropping the bag on the ground, he searches through it for a suitable weapon and, to his delight, finds the recurve bow he'd started to use when training with Chris, along with a small quiver of deadly-looking broadhead arrows.

"Perfect.”

Once he stands at his full height with the quiver strapped to his back, he feels ready for battle. He's more comfortable with this weapon than he would be with any other, like its an extension of his arm—Chris wasn't kidding when he said that would happen at the shooting range. Preemptively nocking an arrow, Stiles kicks the bag to the side and trots down the alley, heading in the direction of the screams.

* * *

"Fuck!”

Derek hears Scott's expletive loud and clear but can't do anything to aid the recently shot beta. The two of them are on the ground a few feet away from each other while Gerard looms over them, not even trying to hide his braggadocio. Chris and Allison are in a similar predicament on the other side of the alley, both unconscious, and Derek's only solace is that he thinks everyone else in his pack managed to get away.

That Stiles managed to get away.

Once he'd forced the boy to seek his own safety, Derek had quickly tracked down Gerard and his betas and tried his best to stop him. The new wolves were too inexperienced to effectively stand up to someone who was out of his mind and had decades of studious training under his belt, so their defence fell to their alpha. After happening upon the shocking scene, Derek had intercepted a bullet for Allison, which tore through the muscle of his thigh and impeded his movements. The girl had passed out soon after and taken her father with her, the torture she had endured at the hands of her family finally catching up to her. Derek managed to hold Gerard up long enough for Lydia and Isaac to run, the tall boy supporting the redhead the whole way, but that was as far as it went. Because he was already injured, his claws, fangs and superior strength were no match for Gerard, who'd expertly avoided his embarrassingly uncoordinated blows and retaliated in kind, making him look like a tyro.

The older man wore silver knuckle dusters, which packed a surprising punch—Derek's jaw still aches from when Gerard had managed to hit him in the face, and he thinks he has a loose tooth or two to boot. Now, he lies on the ground, trying to maintain the same amount of distance between himself and Gerard by dragging himself backward as the hunter advances. His leg throbs brightly and the bullet wound in his thigh leaves a sticky trail of blood on the concrete, and already sweat forms on his brow and he can tell that the blood has drained from his face, leaving his skin with a sickly pallor—he's getting really tired of wolfsbane poisoning.

"Oh, how I've waited for this moment,” Gerard smirks as he keeps moving closer to Derek, slipping off his knuckle dusters and picking back up his hunting rifle.

Derek growls. "What moment?”

"The moment I get to kill you, the last surviving Hale... It's been years in the making.”

"I'm so happy for you,” Derek congratulates sardonically.

"I didn't really plan for it to be over this quickly—you showing up tonight did force me to accelerate things a bit—but...needs must, I suppose,” Gerard continues with a shrug. He aims his rifle right between Derek's eyes. "I'm sure this will be just as satisfying. And of course there's still your boy toy to take care of. It's a shame you won't be around to watch. I'll be taking my time with that one.”

Derek doesn't look away or close his eyes, refusing to show fear.

"Goodbye, Derek.”

Gerard's finger twitches on the trigger.

Then, before death can wrap him in its embrace, Derek hears a sharp inhale and a strange whooshing sound. Gerard goes suddenly rigid, and Derek stares up at his face as he coughs and blood flies from his parted lips. He doesn't register right away what has happened, but then he flicks his eyes down to Gerard's chest, from the centre of which the reddened head of an arrow protrudes. The rifle falls from Gerard's grip, hitting the ground with a clatter, and then the man himself falls, first to his knees and then onto his side, where he convulses violently a few times before taking his last breath. Time seems to stand still when, at the other end of the alley, Derek spies Stiles standing with a bow in his hands, his arms still held in the perfect stance for releasing an arrow that he'd learned from his training with Chris. Derek has never been more happy to see anyone in his life.

Time seems to stretch on. Though he'd stopped voicing his opinions on the matter the day after Stiles came home with a cut on his foot and a bump on the side of his head, Derek had remained quietly disapproving of the boy's headstrong desire to train as a hunter. He didn't doubt Stiles' capabilities, not after how many times he'd proved himself fighting against Peter and Kate. He was simply worried. Now, though, Derek can see clearly just who Stiles will become, the strong, beautiful warrior who is already beginning to emerge.

He looks on in awe.

"Stiles...” he whispers, the magic word that makes the world start moving again.

The boy drops his bow, tosses away the quiver on his back, and dashes to where Derek lies propped up on his elbows. He crashes down to his knees, doubtless scraping them badly, and comes to a stop right next to Derek. "Are you OK?” Stiles asks frantically, his hands fluttering in the air above the wound on Derek's leg, like he's afraid to touch in case he exacerbates it. "Please tell me you're OK.”

"Breathe, love,” Derek interjects, cupping Stiles' face. "I'll be fine.”

"And...and what about everyone else?”

"Wolfsbane, but Gerard still had a few more bullets so they'll be fine, too.”

"Oh...” Stiles releases a long breath. "Thank God.”

"What about you?”

"Cut up. Tired. Happy we're still alive. Y'know, the usual.”

Stiles gives a small, halfhearted laugh before his face becomes unsure again. Derek can tell that the boy still isn't fully convinced that everything is alright, so he moves his hand to the back of Stiles' neck and is about to pull them into a kiss when Stiles beats him to it, their mouths crashing together ungracefully. His lips part in surprise, giving Stiles the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue between them and deepen it. It's sloppy and uncoordinated, neither of them possessing the wherewithal to kiss with any sort of finesse, but Derek doesn't care at all. He feels fingers tangle in his hair and moves to sit up properly, pushing past the pain in his thigh because he can sense that they both need to be _closer_ , to reassure themselves with more than words that they're both still there. The kiss doesn't end until they're both in danger of running out of oxygen, and even then they don't go far, staying with their arms wrapped around each other and their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

"Sorry,” Stiles murmurs. "I just needed—"

"It's OK,” Derek interrupts with a soft smile. "Never apologise for kissing me.”

"I might never stop, then.”

Derek huffs out a short laugh. "I wouldn't complain.”

"Good,” Stiles says, pecking Derek one last time on the lips before pulling away. "C'mon. Let's get you fixed up so we can get out of here.”

* * *

The next couple of hours are a blur to Stiles. The pack regroups quickly following Gerard's demise—Isaac and Lydia apparently didn't go far—and both he and Derek are happy to just hang back and watch from the sidelines as Chris takes charge of the situation, neither of them wanting to take their hands off of the other once Derek is again cured of wolfsbane poisoning. A strange sort of calm comes over Chris, like he has shut off his emotions in order to deal with what has occurred that night. The bodies of Gerard and Victoria are his to deal with, he says expressionlessly, and everyone else should just go home, get some rest, and try their best to pretend that none of it ever happened. Stiles feels terrible for Chris, because he'd been betrayed by both his wife and father and then lost them in the space of a day. He pulls the hunter into a quick but effusive hug before allowing Derek to take him home.

The embrace is returned just as tightly.

With energy he doesn't really have, as soon as they get to the McCalls'—he thanks his lucky stars that Melissa is working and won't have noticed his absence—Stiles hops straight in the shower. He washes the blood from his body and then sits stiffly on his bed, clad in nothing but a towel, as Derek takes care of the many cuts that litter his arms and torso. Once everything is disinfected and wrapped up, Derek takes a shower as well and comes back into the bedroom dressed in the spare clothes he always keeps in his car.

Now, they lie side by side on Stiles' bed.

"What's gonna happen now?” Stiles asks, turning his head to peer through the darkness at his bedmate's profile.

Derek sighs. "I don't really know...”

"Mmm, me neither.”

"Let's... Let's just get some sleep. We can deal with it all tomorrow.”

Mumbling his agreement, Stiles pulls the sheets up from the foot of the bed and, mindful of his injuries, turns over onto his side. Derek does the same, throwing an arm over Stiles' waist and pulling them flush together, his nose ending up in the nape of Stiles' neck. Neither of them say anything else. They're both aware of the things they still have to talk about and deal with—the apparition of whatever force had helped Stiles defeat Victoria, the fractured state of the pack, and the lies they'll have to concoct to cover it all up, to name a few. But, just for tonight, they shut out the outside world and content themselves with the knowledge that they're both alive and well. Whatever happens, Stiles thinks as he takes Derek's hand from over his stomach and interlocks their fingers, they'll get through it.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I certainly hope you all enjoyed this slightly-longer-than-usual final chapter. :) I was going to try to cut it down a bit to make it fit with all the other chapters, which were 4,000 words each, but there wasn't anything I felt comfortable not including here. So, a longer chapter it was. Rest assured that this isn't the end for this series, though. I have 2 more parts planned for the future, covering seasons 3A and 3B, although the next part won't be starting for quite a while. I'll be writing other Sterek fics in the meantime so that I don't get burned out on this series.
> 
> Anyway, what did you guys think? I was worried when writing this that things felt a bit rushed toward the end there, but hopefully not. Gerard and Victoria's deaths likely weren't bloody enough to satisfy some of you guys, I know, but I felt like making them as quick as I did would be a better fit. Sadism didn't really seem like a part of Stiles' character in this fic, regardless of what Gerard did first to him and the people he loves, so an arrow through the chest it was.
> 
> Also, thumbs up for Sterek kisses!
> 
> Stay tuned for my next work, a Sterek soulmate one-shot, which will be posted in two weeks' time, on Thursday, 18th May, at around 8pm BST. After that, I have a dark, multi-chapter alive-Hale-family AU planned, and then I'll probably move on to Part 3 of my Smouldering Hearts series. That one's long overdue, wouldn't you say? ;) **Make sure you're subscribed to me if you want to be notified when it all goes live!** Don't forget to leave some kudos and drop a comment down below to let me know what you thought. All feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated.


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